


A Change Of Perspective

by Jupiterra



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Complete, F/M, Feelings, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Gender or Sex Swap, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Ivan Dealing With Stuff, Most Nations Show Up, swears
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-05
Updated: 2018-03-09
Packaged: 2019-03-13 23:39:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 21,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13581372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jupiterra/pseuds/Jupiterra
Summary: Ivan's leader dies suddenly, leaving all of Russia in a bind. Suffering from poor health, Ivan Braginsky soon finds himself dealing with much more feminine problems. (gender bender story)





	1. Chapter 1

Ivan felt terrible. His bones seem to hurt. His skin and muscles felt tenderized. The stubbornly silent Russian hadn't been able keep solid food down for days. Ivan knew it probably had something to do with all the civil rights protests tearing apart Moscow.

The complications began three months ago. It had been a total fluke, a freak accident. His illustrious leader died in a sudden traffic collision. Blame was thrown around, fines and jail time allotted. In the end, it was just a combination of terrible luck and a transport truck with bad handling. Honestly, many of Ivan's leaders had met worse deaths. Diarrhea, lighting your own house on fire with a pipe, strokes... A car accident was hardly embarrassing.

After a lengthy state funeral and a month to grieve, Ivan started things up again. The stand-in for the job was in rough American terms, “a total pussy.” This infuriated the stoic Russian nation to no end. When emergency elections finally kicked in, the violet eyed giant was pleased. He would literally kiss any other person's boots than those of his morally weak superior. The human said yes to anything, with zero military experience. It was humiliating, like being commanded by a child.

That was when the stomach aches started for the immortal ash blond.

No longer suppressed by ultra capitalist government ego, liberal and communist parties sprang up like weeds. Ivan began wondering if he would be communist yet again so soon. He could feel it building in his veins, like a resigned sigh from every citizen. Dozens of people campaigned to control the super power known as Russia. Elections of the non-rigged variety drew closer in many regions.

The aches spread and intensified, but Ivan remained impassively silent. He had been leaderless before for months. It was a draining and painful experience, but he would deal with it just fine.

“You don't look so good.” an obnoxious voice cut in, pulling Ivan out a foggy daze. The decadent room swam slightly as Russia looked at the stupid American. The tanned demon child just looked at him in curious concern from across the table. Germany was also present, analyzing every facial tic with trained eyes.

The trio was meeting alone this evening in a neutral Italian restaurant. Ivan had personally invited both of them, hoping sanctions and trade bans could be lifted. He was desperate to alleviate his suffering, even if it meant playing nice. “I am fine. Germany, you were discussing tariffs on produce?” Ivan cut off his former foe, returning with a minimum of politeness to international banter.

It was so difficult to concentrate on the Germanic's monotonous financial ramblings. It was even harder to not throw up this passable spaghetti dinner he couldn't afford to pay for. Blanching from a familiar discomfort, Ivan stood. “My apologies, comrades. I need to... to...”

Words fell away along with the floor. Russia fell over like dead lumber, surprised and numb as he lay prostrate on the dirty restaurant floor. Everything was moving too much, like rushing water. He hunched and curled with the urge to vomit, barely containing himself.

Two pairs of arms carried him to the bathroom as Ivan blinked blearily. “I do not need to be carried. I am the mighty Russian Federation.” he protested weakly, clutching his gut. “Shut up big guy, you're totally dying right now.” the awful American dismissed, taking most of Ivan's bulk. Germany had taken up the legs, steering the way silently.

“He is in elections right now. He should be stabilizing.” the strict blond muttered. Dumping Russia beside a toilet, Germany back away quickly. “He's probably just allergic to something or whatever.” the other blond speculated openly. America patted Ivan on the back, oblivious as ever. “Go away.” Ivan snarled, feeling pressure and acidic bile work it's way up. With no time for threats, he dragged himself to the foul vessel's edge.

It was the third worst restaurant outing the unfortunate Russian ever had to live through. Germany took the violent hint and left, but America made it so much worse. Not only did he never shut up, but he had the nerve to recommend ginger tea for stomach aches. Ginger tea. As if Ivan, stuck with this condition for two months now, had never once tried such methods. Like Ivan was an idiot.

“Leave... me alone.” Ivan groaned, forty minutes and one empty body later. “Chivalry calls broski. I'm not just ditching you in a public bathroom. Even if you do suck.” Alfred replied with a smart salute. Upstart little punk. “Fine, be a bogatyr and drag my body home.” Ivan muttered, still feeling unbalanced.

America wouldn't leave Russia alone until they were at his apartment. The grey apartment block of soviet times past was in lesser disrepair, but it was conveniently close to work. He didn't even need to drive now. Unfortunately, the elevator was always broken. The ridiculous number of stairs would have been impossible without America propping him up.

“Duuude. You live in a shit hole. What happened to your crazy huge mansion?” Alfred blurted out thoughtlessly. Ivan glared at him darkly, not wanting to talk about it. Instead he fished out his keys, and waited expectantly. “You will be leaving now.” Ivan clarified, when Alfred didn't note the obvious. He really didn't want the western power seeing the inside of Ivan's home, insulting it with his ignorance.

“No can do. I'm the hero, and I have to make sure –” Ivan cut off the self righteous nonsense, pulling a gun on his traveling companion. “Leave. Me. Alone.” Ivan ground out, gritting his teeth. The tanned American raised his brows in surprise, then squinted with a distinct expression of disapproval. “Fine, be an shit head.” the younger nation spat, stomping off.

Ivan sagged against the door in relief, waiting until his former nemesis was gone to enter the tiny space. It was a classic white concrete apartment, with a minimum of rooms coming off a main area. The main area was a dining, living, and cooking space. In Russia's case, it was also a bedroom. He needed the actual bedroom to hold all his weapons and work suits. There was a weak attempt to cheer up the living quarters. Ivan had put up posters of his favourite musicians, romance movies, and cat memes over almost every wall.

Pushing past the piled garbage bags by the door, Ivan flicked on a light. Kicking off his mucky snow boots, he tossed his fancy fur trimmed coat on a hook. So much for bluffing good health and fortune. He might as well have painted 'I need help' on his face for today's failed meet up. Pathetic. 

Falling on the king size bed that took up half the room, he groaned. Everything still hurt, and now he was exhausted. Not bothering to change, he let his two fluffy cats pounce on him. “Pasha, Moscow, your papa is not doing so well.” Ivan admitted, lazily petting both dark fluffy beasts. They had collars of white, tails dipped like paintbrushes.

Feeling distantly feverish, Ivan drifted off into uneasy sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Ivan dreamed. He dreamed he was home again, in his old house, before Stalin, but after the Romanovs. It was Sunday, still a day of worship. The mansion had just finished being updated, seized from unimportant dead royals. Big sister Katyusha was humming Korobushka as she mixed up a fresh batch of blin. Natalia browsed wall paper samples at the kitchen table, frowning. 

“Little sun, you shouldn't look so sad. I promised I would bring us new family members.” Ivan soothed, scooping up his baby sister in a big hug. “And I love you for that. But Lithuania's room is so... beige. I want it to look as nice as the other rooms. Stylish.” Natalia mused, snuggling her brother innocently. “I'm not invading over there for a while, we still have time to repaint.” Ivan replied, letting go so he could sit.

Browsing the newspaper, he looked over his happy family. Katya brought out a plate of fresh blini to share, along with berries, sour cream, and a bottle of kvass. “Vanya, when are you heading out to invade Latvia? I just finished his room and it looks wonderful. Sewed the pillows on the bed myself.” Big sister asked sweetly, smothering her own blini in butter.

Pouring himself a glass of kvass, Ivan replied “Soon, if you want. He is rather cute and little.” “He'll be so happy with us. A big family...” Natalia remarked, smiling coyly. “The biggest.” Ivan agreed, chuckling warmly. Katyusha looked at him with big blue eyes, but the colour suddenly seemed wrong. Her voice too. Nostalgic visions of the past filtered out slowly, replaced by a sad dim apartment drowning in clutter.

“Katya. Your voice changed.” Ivan mumbled, then reached out. When he touched the cold metal frames of America's glasses, reality kicked in. Ivan was half awake, and his immortal foe was sitting on the bed. Panicking, Ivan whipped around to reach for a gun. The one under his pillow was gone.

“Relax big guy. I'm here on orders.” Alfred stated casually, displaying empty gloved hands. Ivan flattened back to the mattress, much like his scared kitties in the corner. “Go away.” he hissed, frantically looking for improvised weapons. He must have slept well, because all the pain was gone.

Ivan noticed something extremely disturbing. His voice was off, exactly like when he forced himself to a higher pitch to sound innocent. He wasn't forcing this change at all. His worn leather gloves, his pants, his... everything was loose on him except in the chest and thigh areas. A few ragged strands of beige hair fell in front of his eyes, temporarily obscuring his view. It wasn't this long normally.

“What did you do to me? I'll kill you if you touched me.” Ivan threatened, finally locating a dagger from a side table drawer. Well... more of a letter opener. Ivan had killed with less. America rolled his eyes, standing now. “I didn't do anything. I just showed up like... twenty minutes ago. You looked dead.” the honey blonde informed. “Just... Christ... look in a mirror man.” he added, backing away.

Keeping America at bay with the admittedly dull letter opener, he backed into his cramped bathroom and closed the door. It was a task to stop his pants from slipping loose, clutching at the belt. Frustrated, Ivan finally looked in the wall mounted mirror.

A stranger was in the mirror. It was covered in dried blood and so different. His royal purple eyes and slightly large nose were the same. That definitively masculine jaw line was softer, along with the rest of his features. Hair in a cool shade of platinum blonde frame the rounded face. Peeking beneath his spoiled work shirt, a generous pair of assets was discovered. It was nothing as ridiculous as Ukraine's chest, but still bigger than his little sister. Certainly enough to throw off his stability at this moment.

Hesitantly, Ivan looked and felt inside his ill fitting pants. There was nothing. His wonderfully large cock was simply gone. Trembling with shock, Ivan immediately went for the pistol behind the toilet. Lashing the pants tighter, he was on the last inner hole. That was right... Ivan always had to buy bigger belts than normal.

Leaving the bathroom in a huff, Ivan pointed the gun at America. The golden haired fool was currently sitting on Ivan's ruined mattress, watching Russian news with English subtitles on. “Tell me everything that happened or I will shoot your penis off.” Ivan threatened, not joking in the least.

“Woah, let's not be hasty ruskie! I mean, your guys... FAPSI agents called me up, because you went missing for a week. They thought I did it, but I was busy doing stuff in Hawaii. After a bit of black mail... Here I am. I thought you were dead, but... guess not.” Alfred blurted out in a rush, covering his groin fearfully.

Ivan stared at the uninvited guest with a narrowed squint, then clicked the gun safety on. The younger nation seemed earnest enough in this moment. “Uh... good news is your elections are over. You have a boss again! Yay... I think.” Alfred offered weakly, smiling.

“Still have those off shore accounts I see.” Ivan teased with renewed vigour. His voice sounded so wrong right now, so disgustingly feminine. The dark truth was confirmed when America grumbled darkly, looking away. “Relax, I keep secrets, da?” the Russian assured sweetly, turning his attention to the TV opposite his bed. There was a typical news show with a traditionally attractive woman at a desk, dressed in a dark red blazer. She was vapidly chatting with some handsome guys on a split screen.

“... and the poll results were just as surprising, Sasha. Our on site reporter, Yuri Lukoshoff, has the latest scoop on our newest president.”

“Thanks Katerina, the weather here at the Kremlin is beautiful. Any moment now our new leader will be making her first official appearance.”

“Isn't it wonderful? Having our first female leader in this century is a great step forward for the mother land.”

“I entirely agree Katerina. Annika Belatrova earned a startling victory based on her platform of improving infrastructure and improving quality of life. Her voter base has been very active, despite Belatrova's former membership with the communist party.”

“Yuri, do you think that has any influence on her current party?”

“Many people agree it has. The Moscow Liberal Socialist party is an interesting fusion of capitalist ambitions and communist qualities. Since she is the founder of the independent movement, there is no doubt the party's true colours will shine through her words today.”

“Wonderful.”

“And there she is! Approaching the podium! She seems to be dressed in very appropriate military clothes, due to her rank in the army...”

Ivan didn't really understand how any of this had happened. He just watched impassively, listening. Judging her dress, this 'Annika' was a general. It was obvious that make up crews had done wonders with her. She had seen battle, perhaps too much. Ivan recognized the textures of bad scar tissue instantly, regardless of how well coloured it was. Her words were clipped and direct, the speech short.

Lost in the shock of having changed leaders and gender, Ivan was tapped on the shoulder. “So... I'm going to leave. You're obviously not dead.” America stated, backing away from him nervously. Ivan barely registered it beyond locking the partially broken door afterwards.

The stress of losing his mansion to bank foreclosure recently still bore down on Ivan like a mantle of shame. Now he had to clean himself and the apartment up again. He had to get his mattress cleaned. His kitties needed their food dispenser refilled. Ivan felt terrible about leaving them unattended while he was unconscious for a week. Not that he'd planned to die temporarily.

How to progress from this? How to do... anything? Finally alone since he had woken up, Ivan reached to the end table with a shaky hand. There was no cigarettes left. There was no fucking cigarettes left. Everything had to go to shit, and there was no cigarettes left. Starting to tremble, he could feel hot tears rolling down a cheek.

He needed help. Ivan could admit that much internally. Pawing around the messy bed, the phone was discovered caked in blood. Not the first time this had occurred, Ivan spit on the phone then wiped it clean with a baggy sleeve. It had been off for a while, so there was still some charge on it. Skipping the many angry texts and calls from work, Ivan headed to his contacts list. He dialed Lithuania's number without hesitation.

Two rings later, Toris answered cheerfully in whatever stupid language he lay claim to. “Toris. I require your assistance.” Ivan ordered in his own tongue. “... Mister Russia? You sound stressed, and strange.” Toris replied slowly in disbelief.

“I am extremely stressed, and require assistance.” Ivan repeated in annoyance, dabbing a tear away. Lithuania had always been his favourite, to squeeze and confide in. Sometimes Toris cried or made unnatural noises of pain, but that was something that just happened. “Um... well, I'm at work right now. I don't think I can... Maybe I can call you back on that?” The Baltic nation redirected conversation, words dripping with toxic fear.

Was Toris, his most favourite, rejecting him passively? That was impossible. Ivan had been so sweet to him, spared him most of the abuse. They were supposed to be... friends. The betrayal brought a new kind of pain, like thousands of needles. The urge to kill Lithuania was subdued by immense sadness. “No. No you will not be calling me back. You are not my friend.” Ivan replied lowly, sucking in a breath to cover up sniffling.

“Are you crying Mister Russia?” Toris asked shyly. Ivan ended the call without another word. He really was alone in all this. Well, they could all burn to ashes. Without any alternative, Ivan sighed and dialed the one number he knew would pick up. Half way through one ring, Natalya's crooning voice answered “Hello dear brother, love of my life!”

Ivan regretted this already.


	3. Chapter 3

Belarus was wonderfully behaved for once. At the request of 'needing a makeover', she seemed to drop everything and came running. She never said a harsh word about his depressing life, or the filth in the corners. So it was that they were in the bathroom, Ivan sulking in the tub as his sister washed blood off him from the side lines. Having shared baths when they were young, neither sibling was bothered by the arrangement.

“Big brother, does this make you my big sister?” Belarus asked, pouring warm water over Ivan gently with a cup. “Yes, until I go back to normal. Bringing Pasha and Moscow food was very kind.” Ivan replied sincerely.

“I would do anything for you. I could kill the men responsible for changing you.” Natalya offered with a cute little smile. “You can kill Lithuania for betraying me.” Ivan muttered while brooding, taking the lit cigarette offered to him.

“I have tried many times, he keeps regenerating and losing memories each time I cut off enough parts. Then he has the nerve to flirt with me. Insect. I only like perfect men, and there is only one perfect man.” Belarus explained proudly, now lathering up Ivan's long greasy locks with scented shampoo.

“Now I have a best big sister ever, and we can go shopping and watch romantic movies together... Oh we must get you presentable dresses. Belorussian and Russian women are some of the most beautiful in the world. We have reputations to uphold.” the younger one continued, not entirely in the present.

Ivan did like shopping, and movies. This unnatural shift in gender seemed to entirely turn off Belarus from talks of marriage as well. He was actually talking, like a normal person, to his 'crazy' sister. Feeling a little better, the tired Russian dared to smile. “Yes. I should find new clothes. My leader has yet to meet me.” he agreed softly.

Over the next four days, Ivan and Natalya went on a shopping spree like never before. Ivan's old clothes were carted away to storage as the rest of his place was professionally cleaned and hastily redecorated. Ivan had no say in this, but didn't mind. His sisters had always been the decorators and stylists. Other than the colour red, most design choices had been from other soviet states. It had been a community at one point after all.

Right now, the frustrated Russian was in a standoff. He could stand awkward talks about female body functions, being told what to wear, and posture lessons. After all, Ivan had drilled the exact same things into his little sister before. High heels were the last straw. He was going to die wearing the contraptions for certain.

“No.” Ivan hissed, sitting on his now clean bed with happy yellow covers. “Yes. You will. A lady is not proper without at least six pairs of stilettos.” Natalia insisted stubbornly, clacking her silky black foot ware on the floor. The frightening things had narrow stems for heels, inhumanly tall. How did the petite woman even function in them?

“You will wear them. I took great effort in finding heels your size. They will be easy, for they are so short!” the younger sibling promised, holding the infernal things up. The rather nice looking shoes were almost normal in comparison to Natalia's monstrosities.

When Ivan just looked away in dismissal, Natalia huffed. Shoving the shoes on Ivan's feet anyway, she stole his wallet. Dancing across the room, she giggled. “Give back my wallet!” he ordered angrily. Putting the wallet on top of the toilet lid a room over, the mischievous sibling shook her head. 

“Better walk over and get it, big sister.” Natalia teased, clearly enjoying her brother walk like a drunk ostrich. Ivan flinched visibly at being called a sister, for it was so wrong. Giving the stupid shoes another try, the Russian stood nervously.

“Remember its not heel, toe. It's toe, then heel. Toe heel, toe heel. Move!” Natalia sounded off, very much a drill sergeant right now. Tentatively, Ivan took one step, then another. Given that he was still as tall as before, it was only a few steps to his wallet. “Posture, posture, posture! Keep moving!” his bratty sister continued, having a blast.

Feeling braver, Ivan took the last stretch with faster pace. Snatching his wallet back, he grinned victoriously. “This could be... okay.” He sighed, despising being wrong. “Now for the last lesson. Make up.” Belarus cheered, dumping the contents of her purse on the bed. There was an alarming amount of face colourants in gaudy shades. He would look like a circus clown wearing them.

“No, no, no. I taught you how to braid and do this stuff. I don't need to be reminded.” the Russian insisted stubbornly, really meaning it this time. He refused to look like a harlot. Little sister turned big dark blue eyes to Ivan, begging and guilt on maximum. How could she be so insane, yet so harmlessly adorable?

“I just wanted... to hang out with big brother... a little more.” The manipulative minx sniffled, ridiculously effective. After holding a breath, Ivan let it out in resignation. “... fine. Do not make me look like a street walker.” he muttered in defeat. Smiling in victory, she tugged him along by the hand. “We will be so wonderful. Men will beg us to step on them.” Belarus assured.

“Is... that something people want?” Ivan asked uncertainly. He hadn't been laid for nearly two centuries, so he wasn't sure what was 'in'. “Yes, among other things.” his frighteningly knowledgeable sibling informed. As he was coloured senseless five minutes later, the stoic Russian smirked. If he could get family time like this regularly, perhaps being the wrong gender was tolerable. Slightly.


	4. Chapter 4

It had been a week since he woke up as a female, and Ivan was nervous. The internet seemed unlikely to help anytime soon, and his tattered folklore books were useless. There was more than enough kinds of immortal land spirits in the musty tomes. He always assumed the living nations were these creatures. Unfortunately, changing genders and ages as their believers saw fit was quite normal in these ancient tales.

That was... concerning. His citizens had believed in something hard enough that he switched genders. Ivan couldn't even begin to fathom whatever this was.

The curious Russian was intent to find out though. Having practised walking in low heels for three days, He took confident steps. Ivan was relying entirely on his legendary pain tolerance to move about sometimes. He had no idea how most Russian women wore the evil creations every day of the year. Still, if they could bear it, so could he.

Entering the Russian white house with as much grace as Ivan could muster, he was predictably stopped at four security points. It was only fair. If you really looked, Ivan was still obviously himself. After all, there was only a handful of people on the planet with naturally purple eyes. Only one was incredibly tall, with enough strength to throw cars.

After nearly an hour of paper work, Ivan was ready to kill someone. All he wanted was a damn chair to sit in. Finally, finally his workplace believed Ivan was himself. On the last of his patience, he was ushered into the familiar office of his precious deceased boss. Everything was different for the first time in decades. Even the walls were painted differently.

Nearly four months had passed since his last master died. The change of rooms seemed to make the truth of it sting more. His rock, his guide post really was dead. Shuttering a breath, he willed away building sorrow and put on a polite smile. His new elected leader was busy with interns, looking rather flustered. Poor woman.

Used to taking care of such things, Ivan automatically stepped in. “You will be leaving Miss Belatrova alone. You have specific departments you work for.” he commanded, oozing a cold aura of authority. The directionless goons scattered under his venomous glare.

The pestered president looked relieved as all three pursuers fled. “Thank you. They were most persistent.” the much shorter woman admitted, sinking into her plush office chair. She wrung gloved hands together, not bothering to hide her anxiety. “What do they call you?” she asked simply, analyzing him like a hawk.

“I am... Ivan Braginsky. I have been neglecting my duties for the past ten days. I'm sorry. I was quite sick.” He offered honestly. The president looked suspicious of these words. “Ivan is supposed to be a male. You look like a sister of his at most.” She protested, clearly not believing him.

“Until ten days ago, I was male, miss president. I cannot offer a sensible explanation at this time.” He supplied patiently, expecting this. His new bosses always dealt badly with learning of his true existence under regular circumstances.

“I have seen enough horrors of battle that I can except an immortal working in office. This. This is pushing it too far. I demand any answer you have for... this farce.” his new boss snapped, taking things quite well. It seemed the presidential staff had done well in informing her. Pleased to have an authority figure with guts again, Ivan obliged her orders.

“After... Vladimir... was killed, I took time off to grieve.” he started, having to pause before his voice wobbled. Taking a big breath, he pressed on. “After the funeral, the civil rights protests started up. I was vomiting a lot. I was starting to throw up blood after some time. I've had worse so I just waited it out. Towards the election results, I was... not feeling well. I believe I died temporarily. I woke up ten days ago, covered in my own blood. I changed genders at some point after I died. Belarus was a darling and helped me prepare for our meeting.”

The human leader blanched as Ivan finished his odd truth awkwardly. “You... died? You can die?” she asked, looking somewhat upset. At least she was getting beyond the gender issue. “Yes. I have died countless times in service. I never regret serving the fatherland.” Ivan answered proudly, puffing out his chest slightly.

“Tell me how and when you died.” his boss ordered, surprising him completely. “We do not have the time.” Ivan dismissed, not wanting to bring up the gory subject. “Do not make me repeat myself.” the iron willed president threatened.

Without a second of hesitation, Ivan finally seated himself and began listing his many deaths. Mysterious illness and dying in battle constituted most of his failures. The one exception was when he managed to drink himself into a coma during the 1990's. He tried to keep a steady voice, but he started losing stability after some time.

“... t-t-then... there was the Stalin era. I was told to stop tanks with... my bare hands... and... testing poisons... I... um need a drink of water.” Ivan stammered fearfully, unable to stop the reaction. He always shook uncontrollably when he talked about that time. It was a flinch reaction, one beaten into him a long time ago.

“Perhaps we will skip that time.” his boss suggested kindly, sensing the mood for once. After a glass of water, Ivan steadied his nerves. “Before that... time, I was living in the winter palace. The Romanoffs were always a funny bunch. They alternated between spoiling me rotten and working me to death. Catherine the great was wonderful. I never died under her care. She even appointed me a royal doctor.” Ivan recalled nostalgically. He missed her so much, and the sex had been amazing.

“You didn't have a doctor before.” Belatrova noted, impassively listening this entire time. “I don't have one now. Stalin deemed it a waste of funds, since I can come back to life.” Ivan answered, surprised the topic was being pursued at all.

“You will be getting a new doctor, and a therapist. Further more, if you are unable to work, you will take sick days off to recover. You will go to the doctor if you get injuries. Is that understood?” the woman ordered rather suddenly, looking troubled. Did she care? His leaders never cared.

“Please, do not worry, Belatrova. I am the powerful Russian Federation. I can take care of myself just fine.” Ivan soothed, unsure what to do with upset women. “Dying thirteen times in forty years due to internal bleeding is unacceptable Braginsky. I order you to see the doctor as soon as we find one suitable.” she commanded in a steely tone. Ivan understood how she made it to being a general with her demeanour alone. The unassuming brunette seemed to be made of pure audacity, at least according to her lengthy military record.

“Yes, mam.” Ivan replied, saluting out of habit after standing again. “Please, sit. Even I can tell those shoes are uncomfortable. Military wear would have sufficed.” His leader stated evenly, not mocking. “Thank the stars.” Ivan huffed, collapsing back in the chair. He had lucked out on bosses this time.


	5. Chapter 5

This was utterly embarrassing. Ivan was warming up to his new boss, but she really knew how to crack a whip. Once she wanted something done, it was getting done. Case in point, Ivan sitting in Canada, waiting for a doctor. Ivan had been male only two months prior, and was still of that mental state. It was all around safer to visit a doctor from a country less hostile to alternative sexuality.

It didn't matter that Ivan protested he was still normal, only his body was wrong. Alternative orientation was so technical sounding, like he was broken. The only good to come out of this so far was the dresses. Ivan wore robes and long tunics until the 13th century. Back then pants had been so unbearably itchy. Honestly, they still were today. Thank the stars for being able to wear dresses again, even if they were too tight on the waist.

Ivan tapped low heeled military boots on the floor impatiently, staring at an awareness poster for heart attacks. There was no information about this strange doctor on the internet at all. Ivan had only found him by eavesdropping on England's and Australia's conversations. They always seemed so good in health while Ivan was bleeding strangely or feeling terrible. They were rather soft these days, but otherwise healthy.

They had mentioned this mysterious doctor a few times over the phone, one specialized in nation care. It seemed impossible, given living nations lived for centuries, if not millennia.

Alone in the tiny waiting green waiting room, the wallpaper of alpine forest was somewhat appreciated. Too many medical centres were white or grey, at least in Ivan's experience. Before the modern era, medical hubs had been jokes in wooden huts on the edge of town. A nurse stepped out, finally, with a very official clipboard.

“Braginsky.”

“Here.” he answered stiffly, standing. He was almost two heads taller than the human female as he trailed behind her. Internally, Ivan wondered if he scared the woman. He usually did that, being over six feet tall and built like a brick wall. He was still tall, but now he was much curvier and less likely to block a small door. Maybe his own people would stop flinching when he tried to talk to them. He just needed... to talk.

Led to a sterile pale yellow office, he was directed to a chair. After twenty minutes, He was ready to strangle someone. A gentle voice, extremely familiar, echoed down the hall “Uncle Scot, I have other patients today...” A louder, heavily accented male overrode this with “... Is well, laddie. I've be going home 'nyway. Ireland 'll be ta end of me, always complainin' like banshees at ta funeral.”

A sweater vest clad redhead strolled past Ivan's open room, then stopped and winked flirtatiously. “I will break your spine if you even think of talking to me.” Ivan warned flatly, recalling the stranger. It was Scotland. The fiery player used to be a country two hundred years ago, barely managed by an overworked England these days.

Canada, all wheaten curls and cute glasses, was now in visible range. “Uncle Scot, I really really wouldn't...” the quiet nation needled, ignored. “What's a tall fine lass like yourself in this place.” Scotland flirted shamelessly. In two long strides, Ivan had walked over an grabbed him by the arm. The bone snapped easily under the Russian's strength. Scotland cursed loudly and retreated, looking ready to cry. As he should.

“Just... go back to the office, get the nurse to reset that for you.” Canada encouraged, not looking surprised at all. Entering Ivan's room, the normally ignored nation was confident. He kicked the door shut behind him while wearing comfy loafers. “Ah, It's nice to see you... Miss... Braginsky?” he read off his clipboard, looking incredulous.

There was a moment of silence, then “You're a woman?” “And you are a doctor. Do something about this.” Ivan replied coldly, more short tempered than usual. “Well... um... we need measure everything to establish a baseline first. Is there previous medical records or doctors I can reference to?” Canada asked politely, very professional.

“No. I have not seen a doctor for over a century.” Ivan spat. It wasn't really the the Canadian's fault. Russia just hated being examined in general.

Ivan was subjected to an array of tests. After being weighted and measured, he had answer a series of stupid questions. He had to recall, in excruciating detail, his latest death and the events that lead up to it. “So, you would say since 1918, you regularly suffered from internal bleeding and vomiting?” The lavender eyed doctor recounted, looking up from his now note filled clipboard.

“Yes, sporadically. What does it matter? Fix me being... this.” Ivan replied in irritation, gesturing to his generous chest.

“There is no nice way to say this.. but I have handled two cases of gender switching before. There's nothing that can be done about it. It's quite harmless in the long run. If it's any consolation, your changes were very favourable.” the wheaten assured apologetically.

“What do you mean? This is natural?” the Russian hissed. He was handed a Canadian flag themed stress ball as he tensed in his chair. He squeezed the small baggy of sand quickly in his clenched fist.

“Yes. Our genders are not biologically wired, unlike humans. It's why some nations are so masculine, or feminine. Some are asexual, or swing both ways. Its a very fluid thing. Of course this is an extreme case, changing from ultra masculine to very... um... womanly.” the doctor explained patiently, as if Ivan was a child.

“I am not feminine.” Ivan muttered darkly, mostly to himself. Ignoring this, Canada pressed on. “As for the bleeding and vomiting, This is almost always associated with human rights issues. You may need to be more active on your people's behalf. Also... Meth. Are you ingesting large amounts of narcotics?” the gentle nation asked, looking just as uncomfortable as Ivan right now.

The Russian shook his head quickly. “Not since 1995.” he lied smoothly, not guilty about it in the least. “Good. I'd recommend smoking less cigarettes, and eating more vegetables. You need to see a dentist. There isn't any therapy I can suggest for gender acclimation. Just find family or friends, some kind of support, to keep you company through the process. I'd suggest weight training to work off aggression and spare energy, but It's obvious you already do that.” Canada added.

Flexing a little, Ivan was pleased with the unintended compliment. At least somebody noticed. “Any other questions?” Canada prompted. Ivan scratched his neck, out of his depth for the first time in years. “Well... Yes. Who are the other gender switched cases?” he asked curiously.

“Who I help is confidential. But I can assure you, this is normal. If your country changes and you start feeling sick again, you need to give me a call. I assume Belarus told you about your... monthly time, and how that all works.” the younger nation continued. Blushing, Ivan hastily replied “Yes. I do not wish to repeat that talk.” He'd rather face an entire army then have to relive that awful conversation. Intentional internal bleeding was disgusting.

As Canada finished up the exam, Ivan gathered his long coat and things. “Why are you a doctor? How do you have the time?” the Russian inquired, as they both left the room. “I always helped Papa, then Alfie. I hate seeing others in pain... This job is only once a week though.” the wheaten blond admitted. So much like a young Ukraine, he was.

Ivan paused, then smirked knowingly. “You. You were once female, weren't you? You remind me of my sister.” he proposed, looking back with hooded eyes. “... That's secret.” Canada replied slyly, a twinkle in his lavender eyes.


	6. Chapter 6

Ivan was in a great mood for once. The eternal female curse called 'period' was gone, and the mood swings that accompanied it dropped off. After four months of being stuck the wrong gender, he was grudgingly beginning to get used to the condition. Heels were almost normal now, which was shocking. Then again, they weren't the sky high monsters Belarus wore every day of the year.

Shopping was rather enjoyable though. Almost 90% of the fashion industry was focused on women's styles. It wasn't just a simple choice of grey or black suits anymore. Every imaginable colour, fabric, and dress shape existed. That was just dresses. There was skinny jeans, skirts, tunics, shorts... it was wonderfully overwhelming. It was exactly why Ivan was in the situation he was in now.

He had impulsively bought a few pieces without planning ahead. Russia's small clothing selection was very tacky and... ugly now. For once, he secretly wished his insanely lonely sister was here to assist again. After all, she told him what to buy the first three times. With all the positive attention he was finally getting from strangers, the proud Russian didn't want to look cheap.

It was time to get serious. Having actual days off now, the ash blonde could plan an excursion. Belarus was currently busy with rioting and civil rights protests... Lichtenstein just cried and ran at the sight of Ivan. They did have a very extreme height difference, he supposed. That also intimidated shorter males.

Monaco or Hungary could maybe assist. Canada, as disgustingly effeminate as he was, was not an option. The pale Northerner just seemed to hide in sweaters. Ivan wanted to work his curves, not drown them in wool and acrylics.

Ivan remembered how chatty all the other nations could be. He lamented now over the lack of female representatives he could relate to. He needed someone that wouldn't talk, but it didn't exist. The Baltics screamed whenever he stood near them, then ran off and cried about how awful he was.

He wanted that right? To be feared?

Only one nation was dumb enough not to admire and heed his power. America. That obnoxious overgrown child only mocked him, or teased. He would say anything to undermine Russia's secret longing for world conquest. So much, that no one took it seriously.

Inspired, Ivan scooted off the bed and grabbed his lap top computer. Turning it on, he rapidly browsed his favourite photo surveillance collection. Opening the right folder, thousands of pictures of America began to load. They ranged from 1860, when Ivan first fell in love with photography, to now. Without fail, the younger nation was always well dressed. Even after his bloody civil war, he was limping about in fine uniform.

No one would believe the American had helped Ivan pick out clothes. No one would even listen to begin with. In the same way that Canada was too quiet, America was too annoying. They were both ignored as a result. America was a perfect choice.

Giggling, Ivan twisted the hem of his homemade sleeping tunic as he browsed his very long contact list. Given that all female sleep wear was unbearably slutty, he'd had no choice but to make clothes.

He really needed to file all of his contacts better. NSA public, NSA direct line, FBI public, FBI director's home... Ivan scrolled and scrolled. Finally, he finally found his target: Dirty American Dog. Turning on a long series of devices, the call would be impossible to trace now. Pressing the call button, Ivan laid back on the bed and relaxed.

After three long rings, the call picked up. “Who is this? This is a private line.” A very grouchy America drawled, clearly not awake. “Hello America. Is so good to hear from you!” Ivan crooned in mockingly sweet tones. There was a long sigh, then a resigned “... fuck.” “That is not very nice.” Ivan chided, not offended at all.

“What do ya want.” the other asked simply, every vowel clipped with displeasure. Ivan grinned. While repeatedly failing rehabilitation from his meth addiction in the 1990's, Ivan tried to patch up his country's finances. He discovered America's hidden wealth at the time. Off shore accounts for everything from horse racing to bribing government officials. Keeping his enemy's greatest dark secret, Ivan wielded it like a weapon ever since. He didn't even need to threaten America anymore, the fool totally conditioned.

“This has nothing to do with accounting. I am requesting assistance.” Ivan clarified softly. “Why would I help you?” America hissed, probably an automatic response at this point in their history. Russia paused, feeling sheepish about all this. Damn it, his classy boss expected him to look good all the time now. He couldn't just stroll into work in a comfy tracksuit.

“You have always been... a nice dresser.” Ivan began awkwardly. The hostility seething from the other end stopped suddenly. “Um, thanks man.” America answered, sounding uncertain. “I... require fashion advice.” the pale blonde finally stated. There was a long pause, like the deadly silence after a gun fight. This was a terrible idea! What the hell was the matter with Ivan's brain?

“Like... shopping and stuff?” a southern American drawl answered less loudly than usual. Ivan nodded nervously, then remembered to say “Yes.” “Like shopping, as in clothes and ice cream and looking at sweet gear?” America continued, sounding almost happy. “Yes?” Ivan repeated cautiously.

There was no chance to adjust to the explosion of sound that followed. “OMIGOSH! Yes! Totally! Shopping is super awesome! Like when do you wanna do this?” a voice of pure excitement boomed. “... weekend?” Ivan offered in broken sentences, holding the phone at arm's length. “Yes! I'll get a plane ticket! Do I need a hotel? I'll figure that out when I get there. Oh maybe after we can go skating and –” Ivan hung up, overwhelmed.

Oh no, what had he done? 

The ramifications of his actions came to light four days later. Lounging in an Adidas tracksuit and shades with a bottle of vodka, Ivan browsed trash TV on his rumpled bed. There was knocking at the door, but he couldn't be bothered to move. Instead he petted his cats Pasha and Moscow. “Go away.” Ivan yelled lazily.

The knocking persisted.

“Remember, you made me do this.” Ivan called out, pulling a Makarov PMM-12 pistol from under his pillow. With a huff, he walked over to the door in Garfield slippers. He opened the door, gun ready, wearing a bored expression. It was America, all blue eyes and golden wavy locks. Damn stylish bastard.

“You are a meme goddess right now. You don't even know how much.” Alfred teased, pushing his way inside. Shocked, Ivan blinked as he heard “Wow you don't live in a dump anymore!” behind him. Not sure whether to take the statements as insults or compliments, it was better to ignore them. “Why are you here?” Ivan demanded, not amused.

“You invited me remember? Work was like gross, and my boss is a total asshole right now, so I showed up early. I saw the coolest guy on the plane...” This. This was why Ivan never bothered to be nice to America. How could he have possibly forgotten the blazing torture that was this man? “Is there a point to any of this?” Ivan asked with a raised brow mid rant, uncaring.

“Yes, actually. I wanted to check if you weren't, ya know... puking blood anymore. And I need to see your existing wardrobe before we buy new stuff. You probably have nothing but tracksuits and stupid sweaters with cats on them.” Alfred joked lightly. Ivan swallowed, nervously nodding. How did he know? Paranoid thoughts of undetected cameras looped around, making his palms sweat.

Leading the way to the bedroom turned work office and closet, the Russian said nothing. There was the older clothes Belarus picked out for him, seven outfits total, hung separate with care. The newer items were heaped on the floor, very domestic in nature. Blue jeans, Disney and Garfield sweaters, yet more Adidas tracksuits. Ivan took a swig from his vodka bottle anxiously as America silent picked through all this.

“You have no idea how to dress do you?” Alfred asked seriously, pushing up his blue wire frame glasses. “Ah... nyet. I do not.” Ivan admitted easily, setting his loaded gun down on his work desk. Alfred rolled up a newspaper on the floor frowning. He then lightly slapped Ivan with it repeatedly.

“Garfield. Is. Not. A. Fashion. Statement.” he corrected harshly with each harmless strike. “Bad Russia! You're supposed to laugh at cat jokes, not wear them!” the younger nation finished his tirade. Glaring dangerously, Ivan contemplated seven new ways to skin America without making him die immediately.

“You know, you know what the problem is, big guy?” the tanned youth proposed. “You?” Ivan answered dryly. “You. You have a smokin' bod, but you're thinking like a dude. You need to use them curves.” America pressed on, totally ignoring him like usual. The Russian sighed, rolling his eyes.

“Just show me work appropriate dresses and then I can copy them.” Ivan replied impatiently. “Fashion is art, and art is expressing your inner feelings bro. When we go shopping, you gotta pick stuff you like.” his guest explained carefully. Feelings. Right. “Clothes prevent dying from the cold. Nothing more.” Ivan argued sourly.

“Says grumpy cat.” Alfred teased, not taking him seriously. “So, where am I sleeping?” he asked, as if he owned the place. Taken back at this, Ivan rebutted “What makes you think you're staying here?” “What says I'm not? You wanted me to visit, bro.” America deflected easily, far too happy for his own good. “I am not your brother, stop referring to me as one.” Ivan snarled, leaving the room in a huff.

Wasn't Friday evening supposed be Ivan private quality time?


	7. Chapter 7

Feeling loose and good towards the end of the night, Ivan started letting smaller things slide. Vodka made things easier like that usually. He didn't really care where America slept, as long as he left Ivan alone at some point. America just dumped his luggage by the front door, something that normally bothered Ivan. The apartment was already cramped as it was without blocking traffic ways.

There was loose discussion as the pair watched Alexei Chadov movies with subtitles on. Ivan and his sleepy cats curled up together. America hugged, and sometimes hid behind, one of Ivan's fluffy pillows. During one of Ivan's favourite scenes, Chadov was pulling a distressed maiden from a burning car. Naturally, the handsome hunk was shirtless. “Oh Borya. You saved me.” the tearful maiden gasped, like an idiot. “Of course I did. I'd do anything for you Masha.” the other responded, all handsome stubble and probably computer animated abs. It didn't matter. They were real enough for Ivan.

“Christ you like this movie. It's so cheesy.” Alfred noted critically. “Shut up. You're ruining it.” Ivan whispered, eyes glued to the wall mounted television. Finally, unimportant female protagonist and dream boat Chadov kissed. It made Ivan blush and quiver inside every time. “You're gay for cheddar dude!” Alfred squealed in delight. Rosy and embarrassed, Ivan grumbled “How could anyone be homosexual over milk products?”

“Not Cheddar, Cheetos, fuck... that shirtless fuck on the screen. Cha-something. You're super gay for him.” his guest pointed out, rewinding back to the shirtless car scene then pausing it. Ivan drank in the sight for the hundredth time, then stared at his mostly empty vodka bottle. “You are mistaken. I am not gay. I am female until circumstances change again.” he replied flatly.

“That's not what I meant... You want to fuck Cha-something. You're like, trying to eat the picture with your eyes.” America accused. “What woman wouldn't?” Ivan sighed dreamily, folding up and hugging himself as he ogled the paused movie scene. “But a while ago you were a guy, so that makes you gay inside.” his guest pointed out.

“No. I was heterosexual then, as I am now.” Ivan reasoned, dancing around the obvious. “Fine, so let's fuck if you're so straight.” Alfred challenged blatantly, getting frustrated.

Not missing a beat, Ivan denied him. “No. I have standards, and you invented AIDS.”

“You're a terrible person, Braginsky.”

“Says the man with a secret bank account for hiring prostitutes and assassins.” Ivan retorted, finally starting to enjoy himself.

“Yeah. A Russian bank account, from a service you recommended. Because you're a bad person.” America shot back.

“Hiring assassins is important... And you still keep using said services. You're funding me, so you're even worse.” Ivan answered heatedly. They stared at each other tensely, until America laughed. Realizing how stupid the argument was, and the dangerous depths to which it could plunge, Ivan chose to smile. “We... are both terrible people then. Perhaps equally, da?” he offered, not wanting to wreck the apartment from a probable gun fight.

“Nope. You wore a Garfield sweater in public. You can't undo that type of fashion damage.” America teased, also not wanted to engage darker subjects. “I'm going to be the awesome hero, and rescue you from your bad clothing choices. Which I don't really understand. Your place looks really good, and the stuff that's hung up is nice.”

“That is all Belarus. She decorated my house in the union, and picked out my clothes. My bosses have done that as well, to reflect their own styles of leadership.” Ivan explained blandly, lighting another cigarette. “So you've never picked out your own clothes or living quarters?” America asked, in utter disbelief. After a moment of thought, Ivan shrugged. “Does it matter?”

“Of all the things, You just... Oh my freakin' god, when we get to the mall, you are going to learn. Really really learn...” Alfred rambled, apparently broken from this conversation. This was shopping trip was going to suck, and Ivan was almost out of vodka.


	8. Chapter 8

The mall was loud and over populated as citizens fled the stifling outdoors. The heat of Russian summer pushed the air conditioners to their limits as they rattled in their lazy ceiling brackets. Ivan smoked another cigarette as he barely heard his shopping guide's chatter. This was basically hell, considering Ivan always went shopping midday to avoid the crowds.

Spotting an Adidas store, Ivan smiled softly and drifted towards a display. The store was incredibly busy, since three new summer colours had come out. Not that the astute Russian had noticed, or ordered online, and was still waiting for said order. Not at all.

“No. Just fucking no.” Russia heard behind him, a steel grip on his arm. Looking back in annoyance, there was an unhappy American keeping him from fashion conquest. “They are comfy and practical, America. There is nothing wrong with track suits.” Ivan argued, trying to drag the pest with him.

After a childish game of tugging and screeching insults at each other in three languages, both nations were starting to attract the attention of the mall security. Sensing this wouldn't end well, Russia and America fled to the food court.

“This was a mistake.” Ivan said lowly, staring past his companion purely to creep him out. “Yes. It is. But I'm here, and this mission is going to happen.” the honey blonde agreed in absolute conviction. It was starting to frighten Ivan, reminding him slightly of Belarus. After awkwardly watching America eat his meat pies at the cramped linoleum table, the quest for clothes unfortunately resumed.

They past too many stores, too many people. The lights were too bright, unlike his dim apartment. There was eyes impassively judging Ivan in his casual Adidas tracksuit, scrutinizing his ill fitting female form. Everything right down to this stupid bra was uncomfortable.

“I am leaving Alfred.” Ivan vowed, stomping off while Alfred waited in line at a frozen yogourt stand. “No you don't! I had to fly nine fucking hours in a plane the size of a tuna can to get here. We are getting you clothes if I have to kill people!” Alfred hissed, grabbing him by the arm. Several other shoppers rolled their eyes, assuming it to be all talk. Ivan wasn't so sure.

“Tell me what to buy, and we would be finished.” the Russian argued, equally frustrated.

“Fashion doesn't work like that it's... Fuck you just don't get it! Do you think my boss tell me what to wear?” Alfred persisted.

“Yes.” Ivan said instantly, having stopped trying to escape. Bosses just did that ever since Ivan could remember.

“No! I chose this. I choose how I represent myself. Just choose something, anything at all, and I can help make you not look like shit. Something that isn't stupid tracksuits or cat memes.” his irritated companion explained.

Ivan took a deep breath, and looked around warily. There was a menswear store nearby, but Ivan knew it was the wrong answer. There was too many female clothing stores in comparison to the only two stores Ivan used to pick from. There was too many colours, fabrics, and types of clothing. It was all overwhelming. “I... don't know what to do.” Ivan admitted softly, voice squeaky from stress.

Alfred sighed, releasing the death grip on Ivan's arm. Pursing his lips in thought, the younger blonde held his chin. After a moment he raised his brows and flashed that dazzling Hollywood smile. “That's okay dude. Let's just... Do you have a favourite colour?”

“Red.” Ivan answered instantly. Alfred rolled his eyes.

In minutes they were in front of yet another silly store. There was red turtlenecks so long they had become disproportionate. “They knitted the sweaters too long.” Ivan observed sagely, scrutinizing the blank plastic models in the window. “It's a dress, idiot.” Alfred sniped, sounding tired. They had been arguing and wandering this horrible retail hell for over forty minutes after all. Ivan twitched with the suppressed urge to strangle America once again.

“Which one looks nice to you?” Alfred prompted. Ivan gestured shyly to the one that was closest to being the long coats he loved. “Go try it on.” he was commanded roughly. “I don't take orders from pigs.” Ivan grumbled, rooted to the spot.

“Oh my fucking god! You wanted me to tell you what to wear before. Why are you being such a dick!?” Alfred exclaimed, losing volume control again.

Ivan huffed, turning up his nose in haughty fashion. “You wish to make me look foolish.”

“How? How the fuck does that make you look anymore stupid than you do now? You're wearing a stained tracksuit.” the American reasoned, no longer yelling and gathering unwanted attention.

Ivan paused and genuinely looked at the dress. It was a deep blood red, with a fluffy knit pattern. There was really nothing wrong with the piece. “Putin wouldn't approve of... He...” Ivan shuttered his automatic response, recalling his leader was dead. The thought still clenched the Russian's insides coldly. “Maybe I shouldn't be wearing red. It has a lot of political stigma, and really, we could just call Belarus...” Ivan muttered, sucking in a breath and visually wilting despite his efforts.

Ivan turned away, knowing America was about to mock him. Worse yet was the possibility of pity, as if the Russian was weak and pathetic. He was. He was pathetic! Stuck as the wrong gender and slouching about in knock off tracksuits like some sort of street thug. Lenin would have been ashamed of him.

Instead, there was a soft touch on his shoulder. “You don't have to buy it. Just try it on and we can leave okay?” Alfred offered sweetly. “Okay.” Ivan agreed quietly, starting to feel tired himself. Dabbing wet eyes, the ash blonde gathered his pride and entered the obnoxiously colourful store.

Ivan marched up to the counter, determined to get this over with. Making the service girl nearly cry with the severity of his tone, the red knit dress was demanded. “What size are you looking for?” the girl asked warily, having just learned not to look Ivan in the eye. “Just try and guess.” he challenged, daring the female to insinuate a fat joke. Ivan had been itching to punch someone all day.

“Uh, don't mind her. We'll start with an 18 and see how it goes.” Alfred plastered over the hostilities with largely fluent Russian. It sounded smoother than in the past. His little American pet had been practising, which was flattering. It was entirely suspicious how Alfred knew women's clothing sizes.

“What the fuck. She probably peed herself because of you.” Alfred hissed after as he pushed Ivan towards pastel changing rooms at the back. “Does it look like I care?” the Russian replied blandly. “This. This is why you don't have friends ruskie.” the stubborn American complained. Not that Ivan cared. He didn't need friends. Friends only betrayed you later for power.

Shoved into a small changing room, Ivan was handed the dress. A fuzzy pair of black leggings was tossed over the door as well. “I do not require long underwear, Alfred. I am quite warm.” Ivan commented, peering over the too short stall door. “Women wear them as pants now. It's fine.” his annoying companion drawled. “Is men's leggings back in fashion already?” Ivan pondered out loud, forgetting who he was with.

Raucous laughter erupted from Alfred. “Men wearing leggings! You're so old dude!” he teased, wiping a tear of mirth away. Ivan scowled and started changing. Taking off his jogging suit quickly, he stood before the full length mirror secured to a wall. His curvy female body was slightly plush despite working out constantly. Ivan was displeased he didn't look at lean as before. His drinking and love of butter on everything probably didn't help.

It was more insulting that all of Ivan's old scars carried over when he temporarily died. If he was going to get rearranged like a science experiment, he could at least have a fresh canvas. Pulling the dress over the mess that was his body, it fit in all the right ways. Except one. “No. It's too slutty.” Ivan denied instantly, the sorry excuse for a dress barely reaching his thighs. Dark blue underwear could be seen beneath.

“Hold on... Try this one.” Alfred offered, slinging another over the door. Two sizes up, it was the right amount of comfort while clinging to Ivan's form. “It's... nice. But it's too short. I look like an expensive whore.” The Russian complained, ready to give up completely.

“Did you try the leggings?” Alfred asked through the door.

“I do not require long underwear.” Ivan argued, refusing to believe underwear could ever be pants. It was utterly preposterous.

“Put on the leggings, asshole. I want out of here just as bad as you do.”

Grumbling obscenities, Ivan slipped on the silky soft leggings. Pulling the pretty failure of a dress over top after, Ivan paused. The black leggings and the deep red top did work together. Ivan was both delighted and sickened by the reflection before him. As to why, he couldn't place the reason.

“Lemme see!” Alfred whined on the other side of the door. “No. It's embarrassing.” Ivan refused childishly, wanting to tear the ridiculous get up off his body. “Your stupid cat sweater was worse. Lemme see!” the other continued, just as juvenile. Not wanting mall security to find them again, they stopped arguing before the frightened cashier girl tattled on them.

Reluctantly unlocking the stall door, it swing open on squeaky hinges. “If you laugh, I'm going to cancel one of your credit cards.” Ivan warned, not really having much heart behind the threat. For a long time, Alfred just stared with a hand over his mouth. He seemed almost broken due to not making noise.

“Is it... bad?” Ivan asked cautiously.

“It's... good.” Alfred answered simply.


	9. Chapter 9

Three weeks past since that hellish shopping trip and Ivan was struggling to relax. The flight was going to be over soon, landing in Paris. Putting off seeing other nations for roughly five months, the stubborn Russian was forced to attend meetings. His new president could terrifying if her commands weren't followed. It made her an even more admirable figure, paired with her extensive military career.

After cautiously buying his own clothes for the first time in centuries, the ancient nation grew bolder. He strayed from blacks and greys, into the world of colour. Today was his new world premiere.

His ash blonde locks were freed from oppressive braid and clasps, shiny and styled. His fluffy turtleneck was soothing cream colours with a collar that hid scars. Brown skinny jeans and leather boots with a slight heel finished everything up. It wasn't bold red or lively blue, but beige was still a colour. With a modest silver necklace borrowed from Belarus, Ivan was ready to face the music. Or so he told himself.

Later as he left the airport, Ivan was a nervous wreck. He could feel the burning gaze of men and a few women no matter where he went. America too had worn that enamoured expression, hiding it badly. Was something wrong with Ivan's body? It seemed curvy and slightly soft like all the other females. Aside from being tall for a woman, he was hardly special.

Checking in to his hotel for the day, The staring issue only intensified. “Look me in the eye while I'm talking or I will kill you.” he said in venomously calm french, making the rude concierge pale. “Um, yes madam. Your key and... have a nice day.” the guy stammered, pushing a key across the polished stone counter. The idiot was still taking peaks at Ivan's generous chest even now.

Rolling his eyes, Ivan took the key and walked off with a click of heeled boots. Idiots, the whole lot of them. Settling in his budget suite, Ivan took the time to lay on the bed. Peeking under his designer sweater, Ivan wondered if something was wrong with his chest. Everyone kept staring at it whenever they thought he wasn't looking. It seemed fine. Perhaps the sweater itself was not functioning properly.

Knowing damn well he had no friends left, Ivan dialed America's number. It picked up after two short rings. “The united states of Amazing speaking!” a cheerful voice replied. “Hello America.” Ivan greeted flatly, wanting to get the call done. “You are proficient in engineering, yes?”

“Hell yeah, I also minored in astrophysics and architecture.” the other answered, outright bragging. “Good. Meet me in my hotel room. I believe my sweater is malfunctioning.” Ivan replied, ignoring the hubris of America's tone. “I... um, I'm busy. I can't. You knit, why can't you fix sweater problems?” the younger nation said, lies obvious even over the phone.

“I require another opinion. My university major was psychology, not engineering.” Ivan reasoned, smirking. “Besides, I know you are being lazy one floor above me, watching certain... films.” That was all a lie, but America was hilariously easy to rile up. He was just as predictable, probably watching movies he had packed with him.

“Did you fucking bug my phone?” America responded instantly, assuming the obvious. Of course Ivan had bugged his phone. There was tracking devices on his gun as well. Very few other nations had ever been watched as closely by Ivan. The energetic American was so completely entertaining at all times. Always dramatic or screeching about something unimportant, the tanned blond was a living television show.

Arriving in minutes, a rather grumpy American was knocking on his hotel door. Ivan dragged the male in before he had a chance to make a scene. The younger nation seemed intent on looking everywhere but Ivan, unlike all the other males. “You're... not wearing a shirt.” he stammered, blushing hotly.

“No. It does not matter. Come examine this sweater. People have been staring at it all day, like it is a piece of meat. You are fashionably minded. Is there something offensive about it?” Ivan pressed on, ready to nip this problem in the bud.

Alfred, still rather flush, looked at the sweater hung off a chair. “Try it on, maybe. It seems okay.” he suggested, shying his gaze away. Not understanding this behaviour at all, Ivan raised a brow in question as he dressed. America wasn't normally shy. He was noisy and proud. “Don't you have other people to call for this stuff?” he asked politely, extremely out of character.

“Are you sick? You are acting strange.” Ivan asked.

Alfred said nothing, peeking when the sweater was pulled back on. “It's not the sweater. It's you.” he finally responded thickly. “My body is covered in scars, but I can do nothing about that issue.” The Russian said, cross his arms pensively.

“You're... hot.” Alfred muttered, still acting like a flustered boy scout. “I am regular functioning temperature, America. You keep saying that, like I am cooking.” Ivan bickered mystified by his usual antagonist's behaviour. “It's not... fuck. I gotta go.” Alfred gave in easily, desperate to escape the room. Pondering the strange Americanisms Ivan had encountered over the last century, the word hot was quite familiar. The strange culture often abused it to refer to stolen goods, as well as... sexual attractiveness?

Puzzled, the strong Russian pulled Alfred away from the door. Blocking off the only exit, Ivan scrutinized his trapped visitor intensely. That rosy blush, nervousness, and awkward posture confirmed it. Ivan was sexual attractive. Not believing this fact, Ivan grabbed Alfred's crotch and gave it a soft squeeze. The boy was hard and warm in his grip.

“You are excited. This is curious.” Ivan noted, as if recording a science experiment. America was definitely bigger than expected. The Russian rubbed a thumb along the engorged organ through soft pant fabric. The freckled blonde keened and shuddered, biting his lip. “I am... cute?” Ivan asked, afraid to believe it.

“Yes-s-s, please let go.” Alfred squeaked, helpless.

The dirty platinum blonde complied. Russia had never seen a man flee so quickly from something other than fear. Ivan closed and locked the door, unable to stop a creeping smile. For the first time since he was a child, Ivan Braginsky was cute again. Before he had always been scary or assumed to be excessively serious. It wasn't an incorrect assumption, but making friends was all the more difficult.

This new sexual desirability would exploited, and perfected. Ivan giggled at the possibilities of what he could achieve, the lofty goals of conquest he could reach.

Fear could make a man panic and fumble the grip on his weapon. Sexuality, pure and undeniable, could make him set the weapon down and invite the enemy into his bed. How many people had Ivan killed in their sleep for past leaders? How easy it could be to be invited inside any home at all?

The innocent giggle transformed into a deliciously maniacal laugh. The world didn't even know what was coming. Ivan was going to destroy the other nations from the inside, twisting their own carnal desires against them. The proud Russian republic would not be underestimated, never again.


	10. Chapter 10

“How did you get the other nations to accept such unreasonable trade tariffs? These are completely unsustainable.” Russia's president asked in wonder, ogling the messy stack of papers. “The oil prices alone... I could actually balance the budget this year.”

Ivan stood at alert, largely out of habit. He had so many active military leaders consecutively that it was a natural reaction. “At ease. Sit and explain what you did.” Miss Belatrova ordered with a lazy wave of a gloved hand. Away from the press, her true utilitarian nature was more obvious. Her battle scarred face was clear of colourants Ivan was told to refer to as 'make up'.

Saluting, Ivan plopped into a chair and relaxed as his reported his activities. “I was made aware recently I am considered... sexually attractive, as unbelievable as that is. Me! I haven't been flirted with since my last golden age... But, yes. I exploited this new tool at my disposal and subdued over half the males present, and one woman. I'm certain she didn't hear an actual word spoken.”

“You seduced the other nations? Did you do anything illicit?” the older woman asked with concern.

“Nothing of the sort. I wore an especially slutty skirt and patterned leggings. It was far outside the professionalism I usually like, but it worked.” Ivan assured, daring to smile.

It was rare, like a flower defiantly pushing through the thin snow of spring. His boss smiled back. “I'm certain many will call back to renegotiate, but we can drag the process out for... so so long. Yes. You did very well on this.”

The first praise in years looped in Ivan's head for days. He found himself dancing around his apartment on the balls of his feet. Singing song after song, he held a very unhappy Pasha. The dark furred cat yowled in protest of being an unwilling dance partner. “She is so wonderful. She hasn't ordered me to torture anyone, or stop tanks... oh I hope Belatrova lives at least twenty more years.” he praised in tune.

“Meow.” Pasha protested, finally wiggling free. Ivan let the pet escape, struck by a brilliant thought.

It was the next day. Another day of toil and work. Lunch neared and Ivan knew his esteemed leader was driving herself into the ground like usual. Ivan breezed past the posted guards, flashing a look of warning. They already knew better than to even talk to him, veterans of Ivan's meth days. The 1990's were rough.

“Belatrova! You must relax before you die! I have had many great men die this way.” Ivan greeted with a bright smile. The woman looked gaunt, brown hair drawn back into a tight bun. She only glanced upward in acknowledgement.

Ivan placed the tray of homemade cookies on the messy desk, putting his hands together excitedly. The president stopped her frenetic work to gaze at the tray. Her eyes narrowed with suspicion as she sat back with tented fingers. “What is this.” she asked.

“Cookies. Honey spice cookies actually. I perfected the recipe four hundred years ago. It was difficult to cook while on the war front, spending months posted with cavalry. Ah, but that is boring to you... Have a break and eat some cookies.” Ivan insisted, pushing the plate closer.

“Who made this? Has it been checked for poison?” she continued, wary. Annika had full right to be anxious. Bombs and poison were mailed regularly to the Russian white house. “No worries. I made them myself. You do not need to worry about those other packages. I had the men responsible killed.” Ivan soothed with a real smile.

“What!? You killed someone without my express permission?” she gasped, paling.

“They all tried to kill you miss Belatrova. My only expressly written purpose is to protect you. According to the soviet constitution, the Romanov protocols, the oath to the grand princes of Kievan Rus... I have been so many things. It is always the same. I exist to protect you. The same privileges extend to your family, should you desire. Putin declined such offers, but... I suppose, I was much scarier at the time...” Ivan frowned as he trailed off in thought.

The president hesitantly grabbed a baked treat, looking at it like it was a weapon. After a moment, she bit a tiny piece off the cookie. “It's... very good.” she summarized simply. Ivan sat patiently, awaiting orders as his leader gracelessly scarfed down two more cookies. Predictably, she had skipped lunch again.

The desk phone rang, put on speaker mode instantly. “Miss, Your 12:30 appointment has arrived.” some young woman announced. Ivan didn't take the time to memorize secretaries, leaving and going like the wind. “Send him in.” Belatrova replied, hurriedly brushing crumbs off her blouse. The sight was almost funny for all it's humanity. Ivan gave her a thumbs up when she looked over in silent questioning.

None other than the most annoying man on the planet coasted into the office. The tanned demon child sat casually next to Ivan, looking smug like always. “Ruskie, fancy seeing you here.” America greeted brightly in English.

“Hello beast.” Ivan greeted roughly in return, not sparing the golden blond more than a glance. Damn him and his designer suit, making Ivan look plain today.

“President Belatrova, it is a delight and honour to speak with you directly. I'm Alfred Foster Jones, American diplomat at your service.” the freckled nation greeted with great charisma. He even greeted the president in liquid smooth Russian, the roll of each R perfect. It was almost irritating how pleasant he sounded.

“It is hardly a surprise you speak Russian so fluently. You have had centuries to master it.” the older woman replied coldly, immune to his flattery. Alfred instantly paled, his ass kissing facade defeated in record time. “Oh. It seems you're aware of what's going on.” he replied nervously.

“Very much, yes.” Belatrova answered, now the smug one in the room. “I know you're here to contest these perfectly fair tariffs my representative had approved. I also know about the off shore accounts. You owe my country an immense about of money, Mr. Jones.”

“My pardon, Lady President, but my people are being strangled by these trade taxes. We simply don't produce enough to justify this.” Alfred appealed in earnest, dropping his seductive charms of before.

Ivan silently signalled to turn off audio devices in the room. A mute bodyguard in the corner nodded, then stood and accessed a wall panel behind a scenic painting. He then resumed lounging in a chair with alert expression.

“I suppose you have an interesting counter offer for me.” Ivan asked sweetly.

“I do.” Alfred replied, handing him a small envelope. Ivan opened it delicately.

“What is this? What is going on?” the president demanded.

Ivan read the cheque and scoffed, knowing damn well the $75,000 would bounce. The front row seats at his most favourite musical in New York were very appealing though. “Sweeten the deal and this tariff problem will be resolved.” Ivan replied, smiling softly.

“Are you being bribed?” Miss Belatrova asked, looking dismayed.

“It's unfortunate, but incentives and unsavoury tasks are a notable part of the economy.” Ivan explained, watching Alfred pose in thought. The sunny American was so creative in his ways to avoid paying interest. What new ploy would he invent?

“W-what? How much!? Give me a percentage!” Ivan's boss sputtered. He could almost see her going grey from the stress of this news. Poor human. Ivan scribbled down his best conservative guess, slipping it discreetly across the table. The president gasped at the number as Alfred smiled brightly. Oh, had Alfred thought of something original?

Passed a sloppily scrolled note, Ivan read it with great interest. Seconds later, he blushed damn near scarlet. “Very well. I will personally address this issue. International relations are very important.” he replied tightly, jamming the paper in his purse. There was no way in hell his boss was reading that scalding note.

Damn that cocky American!


	11. Chapter 11

Arriving in New York was always a hassle. Ivan had not been here often, not having reasons to visit regularly. At least not since his czars attempted to court the American government a century ago. New York used to be so cute back then, not so overgrown.

Ivan finally touched down on real land, eager to leave that hellish metal tube called aircraft behind. Oh fresh air was such a blessing! Well, fresh in comparison to earlier. What was truly surprising was something else.

As the Russian left the cramped flight gate, he spotted a man in a lovely designer suit. It was a cleaned up America, holding up a card that read “Braginsky”. The honey blonde looked like a completely different person, wearing smart new glasses and styled hair. Why was he waiting for Ivan? No one ever waited for the stoic Russian at the airport. Was this a trick or ploy?

“What. What is this?” Ivan demanded, marching over.

“I'm being charming and waiting for you, jackass.” Alfred snarled, also resuming old behaviours.

“Why?” Russia pestered, suspicious.

“Did you even read the note?” Alfred replied. Ivan had no idea what his former nemesis was even talking about. Reaching into his purse, he found the crumpled paper from two weeks ago, next to a stolen restaurant bread bun from last night. Damn, he really needed to clean this thing out.

Reading the note, Ivan cringed at the now smeared cursive:

_If you lower those stupid taxes, I formally invite you to New York for a night on the town. I'll teach you how to flirt like a real woman and not a street whore. Lingerie shopping optional._

Ivan tore up the note angrily, looking anywhere but his host. After a big breath, He stared hard into those evil blue eyes. “I do not flirt like a whore. I only came for those play tickets, dog.” he growled defensively.

“Right this way my lady.” Alfred answered, tone too sharp to be genuine.

It was unnatural how America was being so polite. He was opening doors for the Russian, being the listener instead of the talker. Ivan was starting to feel really uncomfortable, not knowing what to react with. It was honestly a relief when they arrived at the world famous Lincoln centre.

Despite being stuck on planes for nine hours, Ivan's hair was still lovely. Thank the gods of hairspray and styling clips. His conservative green dress was faring well today. The play was Onegin, one Ivan had memorized by now. He loved Pushkin's works, and travelled immense distances to see his own people's art as it evolved in other countries. It was only a matter of time before Russian culture was popular again, just like centuries before.

The play was wonderful, as charming as the architecture and red velvet curtains of the aging theatre. The only problem was his scatterbrained host. Alfred looked bored out of his skull, playing Candy Crush on his phone. During the second intermission, Ivan dragged the irritating blond into the men's bathroom. As men raised a brow at the intrusion, Ivan flipped them off. “Piss and leave, pigs.” he warned, not in a mood for niceties.

The mortal males wisely fled after finishing at the urinals. Alone, Ivan examined his obviously sick host. Alfred had to be mentally ill to be behaving so strangely. “What is the matter with you? Why are you trying to be Lithuania?” Ivan demanded bluntly.

“What the fuck! I'm trying to show you what charming is! You've been nothing but a bitch since the plane landed!” Alfred snapped, resuming his real self. It was almost a relief to hear all that confrontational cursing. At least Ivan knew what to say and do now. “At least I'm being true to myself. Try it sometime, American.” he replied, marching out into the richly decorated lobby.

“I'm done with you! You know that!? You're a lost cause!” Alfred shouted back, pursuing him in a huff. “Oh really? Then why are you following me?” Ivan yelled impulsively. Years of bottled tension threatened to crack, making Ivan twitchy and tense. America always made him so irrational.

As they glared at each other, a man in a comically sad uniform approached. “Mam, sir, You're causing a commotion. You're going to have to leave.”

“Great. Leave Alfred. You wouldn't understand fine culture if it bit you!” Ivan jabbed, smirking victoriously. “You're the only one into biting, you great big gay baby! Biting cocks! Just admit it!” Alfred shot back in an instant.

“How dare you!” Ivan hissed, balling his fists. It was more instinct than thought. The arm drawing back, then pushing forward. Air passing over the flying fist as it took aim. Knuckles colliding, pushing into that tanned cheek. The pain of titanic impact reverberating into Ivan's hand. It felt like an eternity, yet only a second. It was an impending dance of violence, making his heart race.

How Ivan lived for the fight. Any fight at all.

Ten security guards later, Ivan and Alfred were roughly pushed out of the building. Alfred had a black eye in the works, and Ivan's pinned up hair was a mess. The heat and rage of adrenaline faded rapidly, leaving the pair empty and tired.

Ivan laughed lightly at the situation, aware of how foolish they both were. “We are... We are children this night, Alfred.”

“Says you.” America teased, no longer wound so tight. They both sat on the concrete steps leading to the parking lot. Dark had settled over the city, a light summer breeze tickling their skin as it passed by. “I was kinda an asshole back there.” Alfred admitted softly.

“I was no better. Work has been... stressful.” Ivan agreed, lighting a cigarette. When Alfred motioned for a puff, Ivan obliged and handed it over delicately. “Keep it.” he insisted, fetching another. “See? You can be nice. It's part of the charm game.” Alfred said, making several neat smoke rings.

“Who gave you this advice? It's terrible. This entire evening has been awful.” Ivan replied, his own smoke ring scattered by a gust of wind.

“The last date I went on, I square danced a girl into a table and broke her arm. Cana – I mean... Matthew said I should be nicer and less rough.” Alfred explained.

“It is better to be true to yourself and have no friends, than to be a spineless worm.” Ivan objected, watching Alfred with a demure smile. The freckled blond blushed slightly, pushing up his glasses back nervously. They both took long drags of their cigarettes, blowing smoke to the heavens.

“You don't flirt like a street whore. I was just trying to piss you off. Though, the miniskirt at the meeting was overkill.” Alfred said after a time. “So... uh, you still up for lingerie shopping? Your medieval tunic things suck.”

“Tunics are sexy, in a boxy sort of way.” Ivan argued, mostly for the sake of arguing. He had sewn those tunics specifically because they weren't sexy and obscene. Less chance for temptation or distraction, more time for work.

Alfred's phone went off suddenly, making both of them jump. “Why is it so loud!?” Ivan whispered hoarsely. “So I could hear it over the gay musical thing in there.” Alfred replied, answering the device. “You are the worst kind of person!” the Russian hissed just loud enough to hear.

Ignoring Russia completely Alfred spoke with energetic cheer. “Hey bro, what's goin' on?” There was a beat of silence, then “Oh no. The play sucked, then Russ – Uh, Ivan and I had too much wine and had a fist fight in the lobby. The vintage was like, toilet water of 1985, or something. Most disgusting Merlot I ever had. So now we're smoking in the parking lot.”

Ivan listened with interest, surprised as Alfred prattled on about wines and other fine things. He clearly knew what he was talking about. “... well I'll let you know. And give me back my Pollock bitch. It's on tour as a favour, not a gift. See ya later.” Alfred hung up, concluding the call.

Ivan stared, pondering what to say. “What.” Alfred spat, looking back with a narrowed gaze.

“You are quite cultured and smart. It's not just chess or fashion. You are a classy person.” Ivan noted, standing to snub out his finished smoke with a high heel.

Instead of looking pleased, the tanned nation slouched with depression. “People don't want a smart America. They want a big dumb America. I don't even like McDonalds or cola anymore. People just keep ordering it for me at the meetings. Don't get me wrong, I fucking love cheeseburgers. But I like artisan burgers with fresh ingredients, and a salad on the side. I don't want to have a damn heart attack.”

“That is most appealing. Your flirting is much more effective now.” Ivan noted, offering to pull Alfred off the cement curb. “I'm not flirting asshole! You keep picking fights and being a dick, and dared me to drink that piss wine... I'm not drunk damn it.” Alfred argued, a bit wobbly as he stood on his own. “Maybe... Maybe you're flirting!” he accused.

“If I was flirting, you would know it, man-child. I know how to flirt.” Ivan dismissed, completely offended. He was charming damn it, he was just a little, maybe a lot rough around the edges.

“Yeah. Right. You've got the charm of a dead person.” the other one muttered, rolling his eyes.

“You have the speaking skills of a toddler.” Ivan answered hotly, ready to fight again.

“You couldn't flirt to save your damn life!” Alfred accused.

“I could if I wanted to!” Ivan replied just as animatedly, and childishly.

“Prove it russkie! Actually accomplish something for once instead of blaming shit on me!” the American challenged.

Emotion, long suppressed, bubbled to the surface like magma. Ivan grabbed the brat by the lapels, tugging him close. He'd show that classy, ignorant, tan, son of bitch what flirting was! Heart hammering, the Russian kissed fiercely. It wasn't a chaste peck on lips, it was raw energy and need. Over a century of sexual frustration poured into the action, washing over common sense.

Alfred seemed just as willing, holding Ivan close with a moan. The sound was a call to action, killing remaining reasoning skills. Pausing to pant for air, Ivan was seized by an idea, a distant dream from long ago. It was an experience so old he couldn't remember what it specifically felt like anymore. Sex. Actual real sex between two people!

A woman possessed, Ivan dragged a mesmerized Alfred to the car. “Where are we going?” he asked. “To your apartment! We are going to have sex.” Ivan bluntly ordered.

“Wha... Isn't this a bit sudden? I mean, we could just kiss a little more...” He suggested, still dazed.

“I've been careful for 170 years, I'm done with it! All this tempting talk of flirting, and dares! Ivan Braginsky will have his pleasures the same as any other!” Ivan ranted, dragging Alfred along.

“Hold up, cowboy! You don't even know where my place is. We aren't even, this... doesn't make any sense.” Alfred protested, letting himself be guided. Ivan was tired of this idiot's words, silencing him with another kiss. God that heat, that touch and feel, it make Ivan want to curl with pleasure. Pinning Alfred to the side of his own car, Ivan didn't want to stop. Hands wandered down clothed slopes of back muscle, discovering perfect cheeks. He squeezed that muscular butt appreciatively.

Ivan desperately wished he was male again. To part those sweet buns and push inside, to fuck Alfred until he cried Ivan's name. The imagery only made him more feverish with need. An iron grip stopped his aggressive advances.

“I get it, but I'm... I'm maybe drunk and i can't drive. You'll have to drive but I could put instructions in the GPS thingy.” Alfred offered breathlessly, looking red in the face. Wondering if he too was drunk, Ivan shrugged off the thought seconds later. He had fought in wars more inebriated than this and did just fine.

With a shrug, Alfred climbed into the car and passed the keys to a more functional Russia. Always a lover of machinery, Ivan grinned and caressed the leather bound steering wheel. Sports cars were such a damn turn on. The pair soon sped into the cool city night, promises of pleasure ahead of them.


	12. Chapter 12

Morning heralded with the chirping of birds, accompanied by a backdrop of construction noises. Ivan groaned and rolled away from the first rays of light for the day. At first Ivan was confused. Why was it so noisy outside? Ivan had specifically soundproofed his apartment against these things. Why was his bed so small suddenly, and why...

Oh. Right. Memories came rolling back, a heady reminder of his nightly activities. Sex, mythical wonderful sex had occurred for the first time in forever. The sheer pleasure of being pounded into the mattress bled through, even in memories. Ivan blushed scarlet, unable to stop a goofy smile.

What was most surprising was his choice of partner. Looking over, the Russian lovingly gazed at the snoring American beside him. All nations bore their share of dick jokes, at least in Ivan's experience. Alfred had never been on the positive end of these things. It was clear how incorrect these portrayals were.

Cuddling closely, Ivan traced that masculine jaw line with slow soft strokes. As the feathery touches continued, the muscular blond lay unmoved. Overcome with the urge, Ivan left the bed in a hurry. After cleaning up, he started frying up a stack of blini in Alfred's kitchen. How wonderful was it to have an entire room for a singular purpose. His cats, Pasha and Moscow, would have so much fun running about here.

Maybe Ivan could slowly move in, a few items at a time, just like France once did centuries ago. It was hardly a new concept. No. Alfred would hardly appreciate his black market banker moving in and eating all his food. Even if he did agree, it would only be a ploy to get his debt forgiven.

How easy it was for Ivan to become so soft after only one night of passion. Already he was contemplating moving in, and completely taking over his lover's life. This was why he didn't have any friends. Sighing, Ivan poked at the edges of another blini being made with the hard plastic flipper.

“A frown doesn't suit you.” Alfred greeted from behind, kissing Ivan's shoulder. “You're awake.” the dirty platinum blonde replied, eagerly accepting the gesture. “Alfred, I'm trying to cook. You're very distracting.” Ivan teased, not really meaning it.

“Oh my god, do you ever stop flirting? I have to be totally serious today for a phone call.” Alfred complained, being an irrational brat. Seated at a small table nearby, Ivan's host watched him with unabashed enthusiasm.

“What are you talking about?” Russia asked, not really understanding. He looked over, scrutinizing every little detail. Skin colour, body posture and language, expressions, the surroundings they both stood in. A few more blin later, Ivan pieced it all together.

Alfred was aroused by, or at least attracted, to food. Paired with the domestic environment, he seemed absolutely in love. Bullets and blades were not America's greatest weakness, but sweet moments in the kitchen. Calculating the most effective form of attack, Ivan grinned. Guessing from Ivan's thorough surveillance and information on his colony days, the tanned male would be putty in his hands by noon.

After feeding Alfred breakfast in bed, the two watched a cheesy sports movie. After, they disassembled guns and cleaned them together. It was pretty much a perfect day and well crafted manipulation. Happily eating yet again, the two chatted as Alfred finished locking up his guns in a high tech vault. Ivan already knew the password and contents, so was not terribly curious.

“This morning was super fun, but it feels like you want something from me.” America stated, as eloquent as a brick through a window.

“Actually, I...” Ivan trailed off mid sentence, lost. What did he want again? The Russian had so much fun playing house, he blanked on his latest secret mission. How could he have forgotten so easily?A pang of guilt bloomed in his mind. Poor Pasha and Moscow, left alone while their papa was off having sexy times. “... I wanted to know If I could bring my kitties next time I come to play. They don't like being left alone too long.” Russia finished weakly.

“Sure. I love pets. But you have to answer one question for me.” Alfred said.

“What?”

Alfred put on a most stern expression, leaning in from his side of the kitchen table. “What happened to your mansion? I know you had multiple properties before. Now you live in a complete shit hole.”

Ivan's smile turned to a bitter frown. After being fucked and filled so wonderfully last night, he owed his host this much. “I... did not want to sell my properties, Alfred. I had to.”

“Credit debt?” Alfred replied in an equally sombre tone, extremely familiar with such burdens.

“No... I do not want to say. It is embarrassing.” Ivan deflected, looking anywhere but the American right now.

“Oh come on. It'll be a super duper secret. Between us, like friends or something.” Alfred insisted, incurably curious.

Swallowing, Ivan relented. It was pretty good to talk to people about things, making the mantle of shame he bore everyday slightly lighter. “I had to sell my mansions because of... drugs. Many drugs.”

“What drugs?”

“What?” Ivan sputtered, surprised Alfred was being so casual.

“What drugs? Angel dust? Speed? Acid? There's a lot of drugs out there.” the American clarified.

“All of them. Anything my people could produce in bulk.” Ivan continued, now hiding his shameful face in his arms.

Alfred whistled, impressed. “That is a lot of meth.”

Ivan groaned, not wanting to see that inevitable expression of mockery. “I lied to the doctor. Said I was clean since the 90's. It's only been four years. I still... I still want it everyday. Everything, all the drugs, all the time. I just don't, and I'm trying my best.”

Peeking up shyly, he saw a look of pure sympathy. “You always want it. It's been over twenty years, but I still have cocaine dreams. It's... intense.” Alfred answered sagely, looking into the distance a moment. He then grinned, patting Ivan on the shoulder from across the table.

“Good going man. Four years! The first few years are the worst. Like, the 1960's was basically just one relapse after another for me. Still love pot, but I get really bad at racetracks when I'm high. Oh you know what? We should get you a sobriety cake before you leave. Four years is a big deal, and I get one every six months. Keeps me motivated. I fucking love cake!”

That was how Ivan ended up in a Dairy Queen along some unknown highway, staring at cheap icecream cakes. “So bud, which design you like? There's a motorcycle, a bunny... oh look a tractor!” Alfred asked, exploring the freezer display like a child.

“The tractor I suppose.” Ivan answered, completely numb. He had come to the USA with a plan, a complex scheme so refined it would make men weep. Somehow he was shopping for icecream cakes with his intended target. How far had Ivan's espionage skills fallen?

Putting the small icecream cake on the counter. Alfred turned to face a piercing studded apathetic teen in uniform. “Ya'll want anything written on it?” the youth asked, staring past his customers on the other side of the counter. He was probably pondering how he'd be working there for the rest of his life.

“It's not for me. It's for this big guy. He's four years sober! Can you believe it?” Alfred replied with excessive enthusiasm. The woman behind them looked at Ivan with concern as she covered her child's ears.

“You are embarrassing me.” Ivan whined, rolling his eyes.

“What's yer name, fella.” The teen asked breezily, not bothered by any of this. “Ivan.” the Russian replied reluctantly, feeling like he was going to die in the store from shame. “Cool. What is it anyway?” the teen began conversing breezily as he wrote with purple gel icing at a back station.

“Meth.” Alfred supplied easily.

“My sister's on that. Congrats on cleaning up.” the other said, offering a sardonic smile. It was slightly stained from cigarettes, much like Ivan's own rare grins.

“Thank you.” Ivan muttered shyly, looking away nervously.

“That'll be $18.95.” the cashier informed, really looking at Ivan now. It felt mildly uncomfortable.

As Alfred began browsing his stack of credit cards for one that had money left on it, the Russian snorted. All of them were probably stripped clean. The platinum blonde would know, recognizing three cards from his own banks.

Ivan slipped a few roubles to the public servant. It was fairly close to what was required. The teen picked up the crumpled foreign money, examining it closely. After a minute, he shrugged, putting it in the cash register drawer. “Next customer please.”

Once they were back in Alfred's flashy red sports car, Ivan released his frustrations. “You completely embarrassed me in there! I told you one of my secrets, and you just tell anyone with ears!” Ivan reprimanded, wincing slightly at his own shrieking tone.

“I don't think it was that bad. Look at this.” Alfred assured, handing over the receipt. There was messy writing on the bottom. When did the cashier have time to write this? The simple note read 'Call for a good time' followed by a phone number.

“I attract scary teenagers with regrettable face rings. I have become my worst fear.” Ivan moaned, hiding in his long sweater sleeves.

“Don't look at it that way. You're super hot. The poor guy is just doing what his dick tells him.” America said, handing Ivan the cake so he could start the car.

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Ivan spat.

“No. That's what ice-cream cakes are for. Let's get this sobriety cake to my place before it melts.” Alfred's words didn't make Ivan feel better as the car raced away through city streets. Next time Russia wouldn't lose his cool. Next time he wouldn't be so pathetically vulnerable, giving away pieces of his private life. America didn't even know what was coming for him next time.


	13. Chapter 13

Ivan was mentally sick. Diseased in the brain. It had been two months since that bewildering visit to New York and Ivan was still bothered. Alfred was telling everyone and their cousin about his recently conquered drug addictions, by nation standards. Ivan might as well have quit last week in comparison to how long it took England to get over opium.

Now Russia's phone was going off like a bomb from being inundated with 'You go girl!' and 'Four years strong!' messages from VK, the Russian equivalent of Facebook. Ivan should be livid, ready to murder his nemesis for such betrayal. Instead he was inhumanly sad. He didn't have the energy to do more than work, come home, and cry. His workouts and kitties were the only thing that hadn't lapsed completely in the attention area.

It was Saturday, and Ivan was curled up with his nyan cat plush pillow while ignoring his phone. “Go away VK. I hate you.” Ivan sniffled, hiding behind his massive plush meme. Bundled up in fuzzy pyjamas, the Russian had no intentions of cleaning himself up.

A prompt from Belarus appeared. Natalia was an infamous technophobe, so Ivan investigated it. It was a video call. Hesitantly, Ivan accepted the invitation.

Natalia's coldly charming face appeared on the tiny screen. “Oh dearest big sister! I love you!” she greeted in song.

“Hi Natalia.” Ivan muttered in response, wiping his eyes dry before facing the device.

“Are you crying?” the younger sibling observed sharply, perfect brows furrowed.

“No.” He lied poorly, voice wobbly.

Belarus clucked her tongue, bemused. “You missed our monthly sister shopping spree. You love shopping with me. So you must be really sad. My big sister is never supposed to be sad. I tracked down the last place you went, before you were sad. It led me to my new friend, America. I'm at his house right now.” She rambled, unusually talkative for once.

“You didn't have to do that.” Ivan said, not putting real emotion into the command. Natalia never listened anyway.

The video feed tilted to show a gagged America, chained up uncomfortably on the wooden floor. “We just finished playing. He told me he told everyone about your rehab. He is very sorry about that. Aren't you, Mr. America.” Belarus took off the gag as she talked, propping the phone up with a book to free up her hands.

The sideways view of a crimson splattered Alfred was revealed as the gag was removed. Coughing, Alfred gasped “She's fuckin' crazy! Tell her to leave me alone!” Belarus's lacy black heels came into view, as a command of “Apologize to my big sister. You hurt her feelings.” was heard.

“I didn't do anything wrong – ARGH! FUCK WHY!?” Alfred screamed mid-sentence as he was stabbed in the shoulder. As the blade was twisted, words fell out of him more profusely. “I'm sorry! I don't know what I did wrong but I'm super sorry!”

The phone was picked up again, Belarus's flawless complexion once again filling the screen. “Do you feel better yet big sister? I made the bad man say sorry.”

“No.” Ivan answered lowly, trying to stop his voice from wobbling. He failed yet again.

“Dude, is he crying? He never cries.” a ragged America gasped in the background. “Shut up beast.” Natalia hissed in Russian. A howl of pain was heard after.

“Let him go. He won't learn anything from this.” Ivan said, wiping away another tear.

“Okay. I will come over to cheer you up then.” Belarus answered cheerfully, in her own flat way.

“No, It's okay.” Ivan assured, but it was too late. The line was already dead. Damn stubborn Belorussians.

Thirty minutes into a mushy film about finding love, Ivan's phone went off again. Belarus so soon? He answered it skeptically. “Hello Natalia.” he answered flatly.

“She left her phone at my house when she ran off. Are you seriously crying bro?” the obnoxious American answered.

“That is none of your business.” Russia deflected.

“Belarus seems to think I made you cry.”

“She would be correct.”

“So uh, What did I do?”

Ivan held his breath, struggling to structure a swirling mess of depressed thoughts. “You... You were very disrespectful at that icecream store.”

The indignation was fiery, even halfway across the world. “How the hell was I disrespectful? I am the only one left calling you a he, even though you look like a chick. You don't even identify as a woman at all. I was doing you a favour, Ivan.”

“These past months have been very stressful.” Ivan argued, jumping topics unexpectedly. His reasoning skills were all over the place this week.

“Tell me why you're really crying man.”

“You were a terrible date.”

“Lies. We had fun after the music hall mess.”

“You were bad at sex.” Ivan said entirely out of spite.

“Yeah, no. You had just as much fun as I did. Try again.” America dismissed, seeing clear through the bullshit like usual.

“You... You were... These bad feelings are because of you! I don't like being undermined by insects three times younger than me! I am the mighty Russian federation, and I don't tolerate being made a fool of!” Ivan ranted, letting out a few hours of suppressed anger.

“Oh my god. I know what this is about.” Alfred announced, cutting off the platinum blonde's directionless yelling.

“You... do?” Ivan asked, ego falling away. He genuinely didn't know, thus was crying like Ukraine between boxes of chocolate and love stories.

“You don't like being a woman because people see you as less.”

“I don't... You are an idiot.” Ivan protested, hating every sound he heard from this phone right now.

“I bet you money, you liked having sex, but you were pissed you didn't get to top. Right? Am I right?” America kept talking as Ivan blushed scarlet. “You wanted to drive the car back to my place, you wanted to choose the dinner. You started all of it! You're playing a skirt, but you want to be the pants!”

“Shut up or starting making sense.” Ivan denied hotly, wishing his nemesis was wrong. The reason he was so depressed suddenly seemed crystal clear when framed by words. Stupid American words.

“The next time we get a sobriety cake, We have to go sex toy shopping. It'll be super fun.” Alfred was just ignoring him completely now.

“Stop telling everyone I did drugs. That was supposed to be a secret between comrades!” Ivan screeched in anger, ending the call after. Like a fickle shift of winds, extreme sorrow was replaced by rage. Ivan turned off the soppy film, disgusted by the small heap of candy containers next to his bed. He was going to be a man, unwillingly in a woman's body, and stop feeling sorry for himself! He was going to train at the gym harder than ever, and stop crying so much. Then he was going to kill America in an honourable fist fight.

No one made the powerful Ivan Braginsky question himself!


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the many suggestions given. Managed to produce a fresh chapter after what feels like a century. Like most of this story, I did not have a beta reader assisting, so there will be errors. I will catch them whenever possible.

Ivan had been given two days off while his glorious leader was restricted to bed rest. Miss Belatrova had run herself into the ground again with a nasty cold. Their little conversation before Ivan left made him smile. With her two remaining sons doing a military tour in Syria, the sick woman was left alone to tend after herself. Something Ivan would have none of. He was not losing another leader to a lung infection again!

Tucking the esteemed leader into bed quite against her will, Ivan set up a folding tray next to the fluffy bed, heaped with honey cookies and a cup of herbal tea. Between coughing fits, the former general protested “I rule you! Why can't I at least do some calls!?”

“I have had many leaders die from overworking themselves. I will not allow this to happen again.” Ivan repeated stubbornly, waiting with cold treatment tablets in hand. Grumbling under her breath, the weakened human took the pills.

Laying in bed, the aging brunet groaned and rolled over. She looked rather flush and sweaty. Ivan stood, calling out “Dmitri! Come here!” One of the president's guards came promptly, terrified of defying his own nation. “Yes, mam.” he greeted stiffly, standing at attention with a quick salute.

“Fetch her illustriousness an ice pack. She is feverish.”

The younger man was gone instantly, obeying every syllable. Good. “I don't like this. I could at least sign something, or read reports.” The president complained. In that moment, a mousy looking elder woman busted in, more wilful than Ivan myself.

“Anya! You never call! Just because you are big president now, doesn't mean you ignore your only Mama!” the older woman chastised brutally. “Mama, I am fine. I just want to get back to work. The talks with Iran were finally progressing.” Ivan's leader complained, fixing her steely gaze on her parent. 

Ivan stood by impassively at attention as the venerated mother doted on her squirming daughter. After yelling at poor Dmitri for not bring ice fast enough, the older figure turned an analyzing stare to Ivan himself.

“Who is she?” the mother demanded shrewdly.

“My diplomatic and military advisor. She won't let me work.” Belatrova explained tiredly, now resembling a lump of blankets as she was fed herbal tea.

“She is a good advisor then. You should give her the day off.” the mother continued, preening her sickly child.

“I gave her two, but she won't leave until I am better.” another groan from under knitted blankets explained.

“It is my duty to serve my president through sickness and health.” Ivan informed, never backing down once from that maternal stare. This old woman understand, she must. Losing people, caring for others.

“Child, child, your resolve is admirable. What are you called?” the mother began with a smile. Ivan froze a second, about to say Ivan, despite being very very female. Alternative sexuality was still discouraged and targeted for violence in his land.

“Anya.” he lied instantly, exchanging nervous glances with his leader. Ivan being the wrong gender physically had been an enormous issue, banning him from most serious conversations up to now. Judging from his boss's look of relief, Ivan had said the correct lie.

“Another little, or not so little, Annika. It is so cute a name! But I assure you, big Anya, that my little Anya is just fine. I am her Mama, and I will not allow so much as a hair on her pretty head to be harmed. Go spent time with family, see friends. It is nice outside.” Miss Belatrova's mother continued, with a self imposed air of authority.

“I order you –” a coughing fit interrupted the president's own words as she spoke, “– to listen to my Mama, and enjoy your days off. I need... rest.”

“Yes, your illustriousness.” Ivan replied, turning to leave. “Stop calling me that.” the bedridden woman called out. “What would you prefer? Majesty? Grace? Master? Virtuous one?” Ivan asked curiously. Most of his leaders appreciated the flattery if not directly demanding it. It was rather fun to invent pet names as well in his head.

“No! Just president. Or Belatrova.”

Ivan smiled demurely, replying “Of course, my most wonderful president.” With a curtsy and a brief snort of laughter, the Russian left. He could here a soft “She's a weird one, isn't she?” from the mother in the room, but didn't care in the slightest. As far as Russia was concerned, that grey haired waif was on the verge of expiring. Her opinions hardly mattered.

Standing outside his president's beautiful mansion, Ivan paused to think.

Two whole days off! That never happened! Ivan could clean his condo, or groom the cats, or... He came up with a blank, realizing his home and pets were immaculate. He literally had nothing to do. Visiting family... Ivan had already been out to the winter palace gardens with Natalia two weeks ago to admire the new rose displays. Ukraine didn't even answer the phone anymore, for a long list of mostly understandable reasons. Ivan's other siblings were all dead. As for friends, the topic was laughable. 

Ivan could break into someone's house. He did that a lot. Russia was respectful of course, and rarely took anything. He just liked to pretend he was invited over, and the host was missing at the moment. Hold the handles of cups touched by others. Soak in the signs of life, a rumpled newspaper still on a table, a dark ring on a table where coffee once rested. It was the closest thing to a dinner party Ivan had done in decades.

A friendly visit it was! But who to target? Canada's house was boring, aside from all the french porn hidden in his room. Germany's house was horrible to infiltrate, do to a small pack of dogs always being around. Not that Ivan wanted to look at carpentry tools and pictures of engines. Austria's home was fun, with lots of instruments and art. Too bad Ivan was caught last month at sword point and kindly asked to leave. Hungary's house was similar, but also difficult to enter. She was quite the homebody and rarely left, much like Ivan himself. 

Honestly almost everyone's houses were normal, with the odd deposit of porn or drugs in a small cabinet. None of them had great gun selections, or much junk food. Junk food... Guns... America! His house was fun. The security system was impressive though. Excited at the thought of hacking American security systems, Ivan rushed to his condo with new purpose.

Eight hours later, Ivan was halfway across the world. The white washed exterior of the home was so very American, complete with patriotic window shutters. A big 'I love the NRA” sticker was slapped on the red mail box. It might as well being the best security system here, advertising both Alfred's mental instability and his passion for guns in one go.

Undeterred, the Russian 'female' picked the lock and turned the knob. The door opened but only a sliver. Deadbolt lock chains were visible, so many of them. “Really Alfred. You think so little of me.” Ivan murmured. With a solid push into the door, it wouldn't budge. Huffing in frustration, Ivan leaned with all his weight and strength. This was supposed to be a stealth mission after all.

One chain snapped, a brief burst of metallic sound. After increased pressure, the rest all failed in spectacular order. The door slid open on squeaky hinges, grating one's ears. Irritated, Ivan stomped through the living room to a lovely cream coloured kitchen. Of course, Ivan already knew the layout of this place. He'd memorized it in the 1980's while snooping around for nuclear warhead plans.

Muttering darkly, Ivan grabbed oil and returned to the front. Oiling the hinges, the door was now silent. Like all things should be. Closing the door, Ivan smiled. House care was just as important as house security! On route to the kitchen Ivan spotted the office. It was unlocked, entered softly with clean gloved hands.

So many squeaky hinges! Nothing of real interest was in there anyway. A desk, papers, some secret security stuff Ivan knew about three weeks ago. The living room sported a nice gun rack of antiques from WW1, pictures absolutely everywhere. A framed portrait of FDR was above the couch, looking exquisite. Even Ivan had liked that guy, he was one of the few genuinely likeable presidents by foreigner standards.

Breezing past the monstrous movie collection on display, Ivan looked in a few closets. Other than a bit of household neglect and an assault rifle under the couch, this place was boring. Ugh. What a waste of vacation days. Hopefully the brat had interesting reading material upstairs. People always kept the good stuff near the bedroom.

Two dusty guest bedrooms later, Ivan entered Alfred's bedroom. It was a disaster zone of laundry, with a grand four poster bed against the wall. Twinkling Christmas lights were strung around the headboard as improvised reading lights, still plugged in. A notable stack of romance novels sat on a bed side table. 

The private space was a drastic contrast from the rest of the house. It was quiet and sensible, with pictures of other countries on the wall. Two of the novels were even written in french, a language the proud American claimed to not know. How curious, and very interesting!

Alfred's entire hyper-nationalist home was an act, a grand deception. How much of this facade extended to himself and his behaviours? A burning question, one that haunted Ivan since the 1970's came to mind. 

What was America hiding?

With new fervour, the Russian analyzed every part of the room. Most of the wooden furniture was German, antiques with high value. It seemed like every intellectual book in the place was stashed away secretly, as if they were rabbits terrified of being caught. Alfred's walk-in closet was renovated since Ivan was last here in 1985. It was just a bit smaller.

That was, if nothing else, extremely suspicious. Ivan pushed a dozen boring suits out of the way, tapping gently of the back wall. It sounded hollow, as expected. Ivan's own home, prior to foreclosure, had been riddled with secret passages. The winter palace had been the same, and the wooden castle in Novgorod before that had actual mazes beneath the estate.

Finding a pull tab hidden by hanging suits, a small panel unlocked and swing open. Visiting here was fun. Secret passages, hidden secrets, split personalities... It would all be perfect when paired a bowl of ice cream. There was no doubt some cool treats was in this place somewhere.

Twenty minutes later, Ivan was lounging on Alfred's gross bed with a heaping bowl of vanilla ice cream. He didn't feel guilty about it, evidence of crumbs already on the worn mattress. He casually browsed the contents of the secret closet compartment. Dry rotted leather journals with barely legible french. It was so degraded it didn't make sense anymore. There was a straw doll with faded remains of a dress. A single torn piece of an oil painting, darkened from smoke and age. The painting had Canada as a baby french colony, with an unknown little girl beside him. She clutched a daffodil and smiled brightly.

None of it made sense. Was this remains of someone Alfred had killed and regretted after the fact? Ivan had box of unsavoury trophies like that at home. The terrible looping handwriting was surprisingly familiar but so undeveloped it couldn't be placed.

Someone Ivan once knew that had french influence, but was now dead? The Russian drew a blank. Most french colonies, while horribly mistreated, survived imperialism. Many even went on to become their own countries with a minimum of trauma induced mental disorders. Not like Ivan's colonies. So many deaths.

So who wrote this? An abrupt voice answered “Why the fuck are you in my house?” as a gun was cocked nearby. Ivan looked up from his intent reading, then paled.

America was in the door frame with a double barrel shot gun, looking absolutely furious.


	15. Chapter 15

“Hello, America, you are back early from work?” Ivan said in a high voice, extremely nervous. This didn't make sense. The twit wasn't supposed to be back for hours.

Alfred saw Ivan clutching one of the aged journals, curling ever smaller on the mattress. His paranoia and anger only seemed to heighten. “WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU IN MY HOUSE!?” Alfred repeated loudly, looking utterly deranged as he took aim with the long rifle. 

“Just visiting!” Ivan replied quickly, unsure if his usual logic would work. Big words would mostly get his pretty face blown off. Having to grow skin back really sucked!

“Drop the journals! FUCKING DROP THE JOURNALS! Don't you dare touch those again!” Alfred ordered raggedly, eyes wide with unstable emotion. Ivan obeyed, dropping them at the end of the bed. Only then did the flare of insanity in that freckled face calm. Muttering to himself, the honey blond meticulously inspected each journal after abandoning the still loaded gun on the floor.

After the weird straw doll and the books were put away, Alfred let out a frantic giggle. “Sorry but, uh, no one is allowed to see those. Ever.” he said, killing the awkward silence caused by his snap. “You didn't read all of them did you?” the American asked, still buzzing with uncomfortable energy.

Ivan didn't. He barely slogged his way through half of a poorly written journal. Yet the Russian was so curious about the contents, about solving this mystery. He just needed to know.

“Yes. I read most of it.” Ivan lied coolly, smirking. Alfred's breathe caught, as if the false revelation was choking him. “Of course, I'm missing information though. Clarify everything and I won't tell a soul.”

After a moment, the poor boy seemed to remember how to breathe again. With slight trembling, he begged “You can't! You can't tell anyone! My reputation would be destroyed! The other nations would never shut up about it for a century!” The crazy factor was ramping up again quickly. He had not been this easy to trigger since the Cuban missile crisis.

As much as Ivan wanted to push his buttons, it was more logical to keep the guy sane. For now. “Clear up what happened, since some entries were vague. I won't say a word, and in return you have stop telling everyone I did drugs.” Ivan promised in toxic sweet tone. Killing two birds with one stone!

Finally putting the rifle away safely, the nervous American settled on the bed of with a huge bag of chips. A emotional eater it seemed, not a new discovery to Russia. “Well...” Alfred started slowly, running a hand through his hair. “I... I wasn't England's colony. Not at first. My original influences were German... and French.”

Completely flabbergasted, Ivan almost dropped the all knowing pretense he wore. Germany would not deal well with knowing he had yet another direct sibling. The ones he had now were fairly insane, without being superpowers.

“I was... really happy. They both came to spend time with me, and brought me presents. Then England ruined everything. He completely conquered me and made me be like him. I had... I had plans! I was going to get married someday Ivan! Fuckin' married! And I was going to wear a beautiful gown. And maybe if it was the right person, I'd have a few kids. But Arthur ruined everything. I fucking hate him!”

As Ivan listened, his confusion grew, blossoming into absurd understanding. Alfred was surprisingly calm when he found the Russian gender swapped and covered in his own blood. He was helpful at the mall, understanding women's sizes and bursting with fashion tips. The compassion directed at Russia due to his unfortunate condition seemed so out of character. It wasn't, because...

America used to be a girl. It seemed so impossible, but it explained why Canada always became so prickly and defensive discussing Alfred. The north American openly claimed taking care of his younger sibling's medical needs. Matthew was playing the role he had all along, the protective big brother.

This was insane. Ivan was just inventing things. Alfred was the opposite of France or Germany. Except for the eyes, hair, work ethic, and palpable love of potatoes. No, this was... crazy? Realizing he was ignoring the chatter, Ivan tuned back in.

“... and Arthur's people were accusing lesbians of being witches, burning them alive. As public entertainment! What the hell was wrong with them? So I pretended to be a boy and after a while I became one. It was horrible!” Alfred finished his tale, scanning Ivan for any kind of reaction.

“Not that you were a lesbian.” Ivan sneered, unable to help himself.

“Like you're any better! You just watch action movies so you can masturbate to shirtless dudes.” Alfred accused with a narrow glare.

“I do not. I am a respectable terrifying nation with better things to do.” _... that saves such crude activities for the weekends._ Ivan omitted that part out graciously. 

“Just... what you have Ivan. It's a blessing. Enjoy it while you can.” Alfred sighed wistfully. “You know, it's so messed up, and it's been centuries, but I still wish on falling stars to turn back. I want to say you get used to everything, but you don't. You make the best of it.”

As Ivan nodded thoughtfully, Alfred smiled brightly. “On the plus side, I can't get pregnant by accident.” He joked, playfully pushing the Russian on the shoulder. Ivan felt like he was dying of pure horror in this moment. He had never spared a single thought to such issues before, assuming nations couldn't breed at all. They just... appeared somehow in fields.

Had Alfred used protection the last few times they got together? The thought of having half American monsters running around made Ivan want to kill himself, again.

“Dude! Breathe! I was joking! I'm pretty sure we can't breed on our own anyway.” the freckled nation assured, having destroyed that massive bag of chips in record time. His touch left greasy chip powder on Ivan's black ruffled dress. Gross.

After wiping his hands clean on his jeans, Alfred stood and peeled off his shirt. Caramel skin, lean and well muscled, shone with beads of sweat from before his arrival. Big strong arms let to lithe shoulders. Those abs, perfect even when relaxed, led to a fuzzy blonde treasure trail cut off by jeans. As much as Ivan might try, he could never look away from such delights.

“Since you tripped the silent alarm while I was at the gym, I had to come home icky. I'm gonna shower, but you can have the TV and chill.” Alfred went on, oblivious to Ivan's lust.

The Russian set aside his empty bowl, heart thumping. “Mine.” he murmured, hungry for touch. “What? I didn't – Ah!” the younger cried out mid sentence, thrown onto the bed. Having found handcuffs earlier, Ivan was going to have a very fun time with his host.

It was no surprise in the end that neither of them last very long. Seeing Alfred cuffed and blindfolded, squirming under Ivan's once practised touch, it was an unbreakable spell. One that drove the passionate Russian beyond reason, riding the American like a merciless demon until they both fell apart. With Alfred a puddle of mush cuffed to the headboard, Ivan took care of the niceties. Removing the condom and tying it with a knot, it was quietly disposed of in the bathroom garbage.

Returning to the scene of the crime, the ash blonde couldn't help but admire his handiwork. Alfred was utterly useless, panting and on the verge of passing out. This was the only benefit of being female other than dresses. He had this power over men, over America himself, like never before. If teased sexually enough, with kisses and caresses, Alfred would gladly give his banking information.

Climbing on top of that living monument to fitness, Ivan sat with splayed legs. Unlocking the hand cuffs, feathery soft kisses were pressed to bruised wrists lovingly. “Angel...” the frazzled man beneath him rambled, utterly drunk off the moment.

Heart fluttering strangely, Ivan blushed as he kissed places better. Places he'd been too rough, bitten too hard. His emotions always seemed to get the better of him in vulnerable situations. It was both a curse and a blessing.

Ivan rarely took anyone seriously, as bullheaded as the worst of them. But today he had listened, taking a few of America words to heart. He would be fractionally more positive about his life right now. He would make the best of being the wrong gender, for as long as the condition applied to him.

**THE END**

A note from the author:

I apologize to you, dear readers. I have had so little passion for this story for so long. I've hovered over the delete button for this thing so many times I can no longer count them on my fingers. Still, it would be more cruel to completely kill this story. There will be people, somewhere, that want to read pure unadulterated gender-swap sap. I had a real ending planned for this thing once, not the cheesy cop out I fed the masses just now.

Alfred was going to get surprised with the wedding dress he always wanted, then get plowed by female Ivan (via strap on) after a really romantic dinner. I realize in retrospect, that's not a proper ending either. It's just a strange kink I once saw while flitting about on Ao3. Despite the steamy material you read in my other stories, I'm not super comfortable with sex scenes. Never have been. I must thank the questionable depths of the internet for desensitizing me to this dark nature of writing. But alas, my squeamishness has limited me on this story.

Other issues I meant to tackle that became too ambitious were: Ivan dealing with being treated as lesser in the work place, Ivan making female friends (too many male nations for that), Ivan on a rage bender during his period (the danger is real folks), Ivan and Alfred getting pretend married after a drunk dare in Los Vegas, and Ivan/Annika getting accidentally pregnant and being simply over the moon with it (Because you know he's the type to have 100 kids, and Alfred is too absent minded to replace the box of condoms under the sink)

My next story, Life Debt, will be much better planned and paced. My quality of product will improve, because you the reader, deserve better. Have a good day/night.

**Author's Note:**

> Like what you see? Comment or leave a kudos!


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